 14 Joe was very busy in the garret for the October days began to grow chilly and the afternoons were short. For two or three hours the sun lay warmly in the high window, showing Joe seated on the old sofa, riding busily with her papers spread out upon a trunk before her, while Scrabble, the pet rat, promenaded the beans overhead, accompanied by his oldest son, a fine young fellow who was evidently very proud of his whiskers. Quite absorbed in her work, Joe scribbled away till the last page was filled, when she signed her name with a flourish and threw down her pen exclaiming, There I've done my best, if this won't suit I shall have to wait till I can do better. Lying back on the sofa she read the manuscript carefully through, making dashes here and there and putting in many exclamation points, which looked like little balloons. Then she tied it up with a smart red ribbon and sat a minute looking at it, with a sober, wistful expression which plainly showed how earnest her work had been. Joe's desk up here was an old tin kitchen which hung against the wall. In it she kept her papers and a few books, safely shed away from Scrabble, who, being likewise of a literary turn, was fond of making a circulating library of such books, as were left in his way by eating the leaves. From this tin receptable Joe produced another manuscript and putting both in her pocket kept quietly downstairs, leaving her friends to nibble on her pens and taste her ink. She put on her hat and jacket as noiselessly as possible, and, going to the back entry window, got out upon the roof of a low porch, swung herself down to the grassy bank and took a roundabout way to the road. Once there she composed herself, hailed a passing omnibus, and rolled away to town, looking very merry and mysterious. If anyone had been watching her he would have thought her movements decidedly peculiar. For on a lighting she went off at a great pace till she reached the certain number in a certain busy street. Having found the place with some difficulty she went into the doorway, looked up the dirty stairs, and, after standing stock still a minute, suddenly dived into the street and walked away as rapidly as she came. This maneuver she repeated several times to the great amusement of a black-eyed young gentleman, lunging in the window of a building opposite. On returning for the third time Joe gave herself a shake, pulled her hat over her eyes, and walked up the stairs, looking as if she were going to have all her teeth out. There was a dentist's sign, among others, which adorned the entrance, and after staring a moment the pair of artificial jaws which slowly opened in shut to draw attention to a fine set of teeth, the young gentleman put on his coat, took his hat, and went down to post himself in the opposite doorway, saying with a smile and a shiver. It's like her to come alone, but if she has a bad time she'll need someone to help her home. In ten minutes Joe came running downstairs with a very red face, and the general appearance of a person who had just passed through a trying ordeal of some sort. When she saw the young gentleman she looked anything but pleased, and passed him with a nod. But he followed, asking with an air of sympathy, did you have a bad time? Not very. You got through quickly. Yes, thank goodness. Why did you go alone? Didn't want anyone to know. You're the oddest fellow I ever saw. How many did you have out? Joe looked at her friend as if she did not understand him, then began to laugh as if mightily amused at something. There are two which I want to have come out, but I must wait a week. What are you laughing at? You are up to some mischief, Joe, said Laurie, looking mystified. So are you. What were you doing, sir, up in that billiard saloon? Begging your pardon, ma'am. It wasn't a billiard saloon, but a gymnasium, and I was taking a lesson in fencing. I'm glad of that. Why? You can teach me, and then when we play Hamlet, you can be laertes, and we'll make a fine thing of the fencing scene. Laurie burst out with a hearty boy's laugh which made several passers-by smile in spite of themselves. I'll teach you whether we play Hamlet or not. It's grand fun, and we'll straighten you up capitalally. But I don't believe that was your only reason for saying I'm glad in that decided way, was it now? No, I was glad you were not in the saloon, because I hope you never go to such places. Do you? Not often. I wish you wouldn't. It's no harm, Joe. I have billiards at home, but it's no fun unless you have good players, so as I'm fond of it I come sometimes and have a game with Ned Moffat or some of the other fellows. Oh, dear, I'm so sorry, for you'll get to liking it better and better, and we'll waste time and money and grow like those dreadful boys. I did hope you'd stay respectable and be a satisfaction to your friends, said Joe, shaking her head. Can't a fellow take a little innocent amusement now and then without losing his respectability? asked Laurie, looking nettled. That depends upon how and where he takes it. I don't like Ned in his set, and we should keep out of it. Mother won't let us have him at our house, though he wants to come, and if you grow like him she won't be willing to have us fall together as we do now. Won't she? asked Laurie anxiously. No, she can't bear fashionable young men, and she'd jet us all up in bandboxes rather than have us associate with them. Well, she didn't get out her bandboxes yet. I'm not a fashionable party and don't mean to be, but I do like harmless larks now and then, don't you? Yes, nobody minds them, so lark away, but don't get wild, will you, or there will be an end of all our good times. I'll be a double distilled saint. I can't bear saints. Just be a simple, honest, respectable boy and we'll never desert you. I don't know what I should do if you acted like Mr. King's son. He had plenty of money but didn't know how to spend it and got tipsy and gambled and ran away and forged his father's name, I believe, and was altogether horrid. You think I'm likely to do the same, much obliged. No, I don't—oh dear no—but I hear people talking about money being such a temptation and I sometimes wish you were poor. I shouldn't worry, then. Do you worry about me, Joe? A little, when you look moody and discontented as you sometimes do, for you've got such a strong will, if you once get started wrong, I'm afraid it would be hard to stop you. Laurie walked in silence a few minutes, and Joe watched him, wishing she had held her tongue, for his eyes looked angry, though his lips smiled as if at her warnings. Are you going to deliver lectures all the way home? he asked presently. Of course not. Why? Because if you are, I'll take a bus. If you're not, I'd like to walk with you and tell you something very interesting. I won't preach any more and I'd like to hear the news immensely. Very well, then, come on. It's a secret, and if I tell you, you must tell me yours. I haven't got any, began Joe, but stopped suddenly remembering that she had. You know you have, you can't hide anything so up and fast, or I won't tell. Cried Laurie. Is your secret a nice one? Oh, isn't it? All about people you know, and such fun. You ought to hear it, and I've been aching to tell it this long time. Come, you begin. You'll not say anything about it at home, will you? Not a word. And you won't tease me in private. I never tease. Yes, you do. You get everything you want out of people. I don't know how you do it, but you are a born weebler. Thank you. Fire away. Well, I've left two stories with a newspaper man, and he's to give his answer next week, whispered Joe in her confidant's ear. Hurrah for Miss March, the celebrated American authorist, cried Laurie, throwing up his hat and catching it again, to the great delight of two ducks, four cats, five hens, and half a dozen Irish children, for they were out of the city now. Hush! It won't come to anything, I daresay, but I couldn't rest till I had tried, and I said nothing about it because I didn't want anyone else to be disappointed. It won't fail. Why, Joe, your stories are works of Shakespeare compared to half the rubbish that is published every day. Won't it be fun to see them in print, and shan't we feel proud of our authorists? Joe's eyes sparkled, for it is always pleasant to be believed in, and a friend's praise is always sweeter than a dozen newspaper puffs. Where's your secret? Play fair, Teddy, or I'll never believe you again, she said, trying to extinguish the brilliant hopes that blazed up at a word of encouragement. I may get into a scrape for telling, but I didn't promise not to, so I will, for I never feel easy in my mind till I've told you any plummy bit of news I get. I know where Meg's glove is. Is that all, said Joe, looking disappointed, as Laurie nodded and twinkled, with a face full of mysterious intelligence. It's quite enough for the present, as you'll agree when I tell you where it is. Tell, then. Laurie bent and whispered three words in Joe's ear, which produced a comical change. She stood and stared at him for a minute, looking both surprised and displeased, then walked on, saying sharply, How do you know? Saw it. Where? Pocket. All this time? Yes, isn't that romantic? No, it's horrid. Don't you like it? Of course I don't. It's ridiculous. It won't be allowed. My patience, what would Meg say? You're not to tell anyone, mind that. I didn't promise. That was understood, and I trusted you. Well, I won't for the present anyway, but I'm disgusted and wish you hadn't told me. I thought you'd be pleased. At the idea of anybody coming to take Meg away? No, thank you. You'll feel better about it when somebody comes to take you away. I'd like to see anyone try it, cried Joe fiercely. So should I, and Laurie chuckled at the idea. I don't think secrets agree with me. I feel rumpled up in my mind since you told me that, said Joe rather ungratefully. Race down this hill with me, and you'll be all right, suggested Laurie. No one was in sight. The smooth road sloped invitingly before her, and finding the temptation irresistible, Joe darted away, soon leaving hat and comb behind her and scattering hairpins as she ran. Laurie reached the goal first, and was quite satisfied with the success of his treatment. For his Atlanta came panting up with flying air, bright eyes, ruddy cheeks, and no signs of dissatisfaction in her face. I wish I was a horse. Then I could run for miles in this splendid air and not lose my breath. It was capital, but see what a guy it's made me. Go pick up my things like a cherub as you are. Said Joe, dropping down under a maple tree, which was carpeting the bank with crimson leaves. Laurie leisurely departed to recover the lost property, and Joe bundled up her braids, hoping no one would pass by till she was tidy again. But someone did pass, and who should it be but Meg, looking particularly ladylike in her state and festival suit, for she had been making calls. What in the world are you doing here? She asked, regarding her disheveled sister with well-bred surprise. Getting leaves, meekly answered Joe, sorting the rosy handful she had just swept up. And hairpins, added Laurie, throwing half a dozen into Joe's lap. They grow in this road, Meg, so do combs and brown straw hats. You have been running, Joe, how could you? When will you stop such romping ways? said Meg, reprovingly, as she settled her cuffs and smoothed her hair, with which the wind had taken liberties. Never till I'm stiff and old and have to use a crutch. Don't try to make me grow up before my time, Meg. It's hard enough to have you change all of a sudden. Let me be a little girl as long as I can. As she spoke, Joe bent over the leaves to hide the trembling of her lips. For lately she had felt that Margaret was fast getting to be a woman, and Laurie's secret made her dread the separation, which must surely come some time and now seems very near. He saw the trouble in her face and drew Meg's attention from it by asking quickly. Where have you been calling, all so fine? At the gardeners, and Sally has been telling me all about Belle Moffitt's wedding. It was very splendid, and they have gone to spend the winter in Paris. Just think how delightful that must be. Do you envy her, Meg? said Laurie. I'm afraid I do. I'm glad of it, muttered Joe, tying on her hat with a jerk. Why? asked Meg, looking surprised. Because if you care so much about riches, you will never go and marry a poor man, said Joe, frowning at Laurie, who was mutely warning her to mind what she said. I shall never go and marry anyone, observed Meg, walking on with great dignity while the others followed, laughing, whispering, skipping stones, and behaving like children, as Meg said to herself, though she might have been tempted to join them if she had not had her best dress on. For a week or two Joe behaved so clearly that her sisters were quite bewildered. She rushed to the door when the postman rang, was rude to Mr. Brooke whenever they met, would sit looking at Meg with a woe-be-gone face, occasionally jumping up to shake, and then kiss her in a very mysterious manner. Laurie and she were always making signs to one another, and talking about spread eagles, till the girls declared they had both lost their wets. On the second Saturday after Joe got out of the window, Meg, as she sat sewing at her window, was scandalized by the sight of Laurie chasing Joe all over the garden, and finally capturing her in Amy's bower. Wet went on there and Meg could not see, but shrieks of laughter were heard, followed by the murmur of voices, and a great flapping of newspapers. What shall we do with that girl? She never will behave like a young lady, sighed Meg, as she watched the race with a disapproving face. I hope she won't. She is so funny and dear as she is, said Beth, who had never betrayed that she was a little heard at Joe's having secrets with anyone but her. It's very trying, but we never can make her comey laugh-o, added Amy, who sat making some new frills for herself, with her curls tied up in a very becoming way, two agreeable things that made her feel unusually elegant and ladylike. In a few minutes Joe had bounced in, laid herself on the sofa, and affected to read. Have you anything interesting there? asked Meg with condescension. Nothing but a story won't amount to much, I guess, who returned Joe, carefully keeping the name of the paper out of sight. You'd better read it aloud. That only means us, and keep you out of mischief, said Amy in her most grown-up tone. What's the name? asked Beth, wondering why Joe kept her face behind the sheet. The rival painters. That sounds well, read it, said Meg, with a loud and a long breath Joe began to read very fast. The girls listened with interest for the tale was romantic and somewhat pathetic, as most of the characters died in the end. I like that about the splendid picture, was Amy's approving remark as Joe paused. I prefer the love ring part. Viola and Angelo are two of our favorite names, isn't that queer? said Meg, wiping her eyes, for the love ring part was tragical. Who wrote it? asked Beth, who had caught a glimpse of Joe's face. The reader suddenly set up, cast away the paper, displayed a flushed countenance, and, with a funny mixture of solemnity and excitement, replied in a loud voice. Your sister! You! cried Meg, dropping her work. It's very good, said Amy critically. I knew it, I knew it. Oh my Joe, I am so proud! And Beth ran to hug her sister and exult over this splendid success. Dear me, how delighted they all were to be sure. How Meg wouldn't believe it till she saw the words Miss Josephine March actually printed in the paper. How graciously Amy criticized the artistic parts of the story, and offered hints for a sequel, which unfortunately couldn't be carried out. As the hero and heroine were dead. How Beth got excited and skipped in saying with joy. How Hannah came in to exclaim, Sakes alive, well I never, in great astonishment, at that Joe's doings. How proud Mrs. March was when she knew it. How Joe laughed with tears in her eyes, as she declared she might as well be a peacock and done with it. And how the spread eagle might be said to flap his wings triumphantly over the house of March, as the paper passed from hand to hand. Tell us about it. When did it come? How much did you get for it? What will father say? Won't Laurie laugh? cried the family. All in one breath as they clustered about Joe. For these foolish affectionate people made a jubilee of every little household joy. Stop jabbering girls and I'll tell you everything. Said Joe, wondering if Miss Bernie felt any grandeur over her Evelina, then she did over her rival painters. Having told how she disposed of her tales, Joe added, And when I went to get my answer, the man said he liked them both, but didn't pay beginners, only let them print in his paper, and noticed the stories. It was good practice, he said, and when the beginners improved, anyone would pay. So I let him have the two stories, and today this was sent to me, and Laurie caught me with it and insisted on seeing it, so I let him. And he said it was good, and I shall write more, and he's going to get the next paid for, and I am so happy, for a timer may be able to support myself and help the girls. Joe's breath gave out here, and, wrapping her head in the paper, she bedued her little story with a few natural tears. For to be independent and earn the praise of those she loved, were the dearest wishes of her heart, and this seemed to be the first step toward that happy end. Recording by Jody Chafee November is the most disagreeable month in the whole year, said Margaret, standing at the window one dull afternoon, looking out at the frostbitten garden. That's the reason I was born in it, observed Joe pensively, quite unconscious of the blot on her nose. If something very pleasant should happen now, we should think it a delightful month, said Beth, who took a hopeful view of everything even November. I daresay, but nothing pleasant ever does happen in this family, said Meg, who is out of sorts. We go grubbing along day after day, without a bit of change and very little fun. We might as well be in a treadmill. My patience, how blue we are, cried Joe. I don't much wonder, poor dear, for you see other girls having splendid times, while you grind, grind, year in and year out. Oh, don't I wish I could manage things for you as I do for my heroines? You're pretty enough, and good enough already. So I'd have some rich relation, leave you a fortune unexpectedly, then you dash out as an heiress, scorn everyone who has slighted you, go abroad, and come home my lady something in a blaze of splendor and elegance. People don't have fortunes left them in that style nowadays. Men have to work, and women marry for money. It's a dreadful, unjust world, said Meg bitterly. Joe and I are going to make fortunes for you all. Just wait ten years and see if we don't. Said Amy, who sat in a corner, making mud pies, as Hannah called her little clay models of birds, fruit, and faces. Can't wait, and I'm afraid I haven't much faith in ink and dirt, though I'm grateful for your good intentions. Meg sighed, and turned to the frost-bitten garden again. Joe groaned, and leaned both elbows on the table in a despondent attitude. But Amy sped it away energetically, and Beth, who sat at the other window, said, smiling. Two pleasant things are going to happen right away. Marmie is coming down the street, and Laurie is trampling through the garden as if he had something nice to tell. In they both came. Mrs. March, with her usual question. Any letter from father girls? And Laurie, to say in his persuasive way, won't some of you come for a drive? I've been working away at mathematics till my head is in a muddle, and I'm going to freshen my wits by a brisk turn. It's a dull day, but the air isn't bad, and I'm going to take Brooke home, so it will be gay inside if it isn't out. Come, Joe, you and Beth will go, won't you? Of course we will. Much obliged, but I'm busy. And Meg whisked out her work-basket, for she had agreed with her mother that it was best, for her at least, not to drive too often with the young gentleman. We three will be ready in a minute. Cried Amy, running away to wash her hands. Can I do anything for you, Madam Mother? asked Laurie, leaning over Mrs. March's chair, with an affectionate look and tone he always gave her. No, thank you, except call at the office, if you'll be so kind, dear. It's our day for a letter, and the postman hasn't been. Father is as regular as the son, but there's some delay on the way, perhaps. A sharp ring interrupted her, and a minute after Hannah came in with a letter. It's one of them horrid telegraph things, Mom, she said, handling it as if she was afraid it would explode and do some damage. At the word telegraph, Mrs. March snatched it, read the two lines it contained, and dropped back into her chair as white as if the little paper had sent a bullet to her heart. Laurie dashed downstairs for water, while Meg and Hannah supported her, and Joe read aloud in a frightened voice. Mrs. March, your husband is very ill, come at once. S. Hale, Blank Hospital, Washington. How still the room was, as they listened breathlessly, how strangely the day darkened outside, and how suddenly the whole world seemed to change, as the girls gathered about their mother, feeling as if all the happiness and support of their lives was about to be taken from them. Mrs. March was herself again directly, read the message over, and stretched out her arms to her daughters, saying in a tone they never forgot. I shall go at once, but it may be too late. Oh, children, children, help me to bear it! For several minutes there was nothing but the sound of sobbing in the room, mingled with broken words of comfort, tender assurances of help, and hopeful whispers that died away in tears. Poor Hannah was first to recover, and with unconscious wisdom she set all the rest a good example, for with her work was panacea for most afflictions. The Lord keep the dear man! I won't waste no time crying, but get your things ready right away, mom! She said heartily, as she wiped her face with her apron, gave her mistress a warm shake of the hand with her own hard one, and went away to work like three women in one. She's right. There's no time for tears now. Be calm, girls, and let me think. They tried to be calm, poor things, as their mother sat up, looking pale but steady, and put away her grief to think and plan for them. Where's Laurie? She asked presently, when she had collected her thoughts and decided on the first duties to be done. Here, ma'am! Oh, let me do something! cried the boy, hurrying from the next room, whether he had withdrawn, feeling that their first sorrow was too sacred for even his friendly eyes to see. Send a telegram saying I will come at once. The next train goes early in the morning. I'll take that. What else? The horses are ready. I can go anywhere. Do anything! he said, looking ready to fly to the ends of the earth. Leave a note at Aunt March's. Joe, give me that pen and paper. Tearing off the blank side of one of her newly copied pages, Joe drew the table before her mother, well knowing that money for the long, sad journey must be borrowed, and feeling as if she could do anything to add a little to the sum for her father. Now go, dear, but don't kill yourself driving at a desperate pace. There is no need of that. Mrs. March's warning was evidently thrown away for five minutes later Lori tore by the window on his own fleet horse, riding as if for his life. Joe, run to the rooms and tell Mrs. King that I can't come. On the way get these things. I'll put them down. They'll be needed, and I must go prepared for nursing. Hospital stores are not always good. Beth, go and ask Mr. Lawrence for a couple of bottles of old wine. I'm not too proud to beg for father. He shall have the best of everything. Amy, tell Hannah to get down the black trunk, and Meg, come and help me find my things, for I'm half bewildered. Writing, thinking, and directing all at once might well bewilder a poor lady, and Meg begged her to sit quietly in her room for a little while and let them work. Everyone scattered like leaves before a gust of wind, and the quiet happy household was broken up as suddenly as if the paper had been an evil spell. Mr. Lawrence came hurrying back with Beth, bringing every comfort the kind old gentleman could think of for the invalid, the friendliest promises of protection for the girls during the mother's absence which comforted her very much. There was nothing he didn't offer, from his own dressing gown to himself as escort. But the last was impossible, Mrs. March would not hear of the old gentleman's undertaking the long journey. Yet an expression of relief was visible when he spoke of it, for anxiety ill fits one for traveling. He saw the look, knit his heavy eyebrows, rubbed his hands, and marched abruptly away, saying he'd be back directly. No one had time to think of him again till, as Meg ran through the entry with a pair of rubbers in one hand and a cup of tea in the other, she came suddenly upon Mr. Brooke. I'm very sorry to hear of this, Mrs. March. He said in a kind quiet tone, which sounded very pleasantly to her perturbed spirit. I came to offer myself as escort to your mother. Mr. Lawrence has commissions for me in Washington, and it will give me real satisfaction to be of service to her there. Down dropped the rubbers, and the tea was very near following, as Meg put out her hand with a face so full of gratitude that Mr. Brooke would have felt repaid for a much greater sacrifice than the trifling one of time and comfort which he was about to take. How kind you all are! Mother will accept, I'm sure, and it will be such a relief to know that she has someone to take care of her. Thank you very, very much! Meg spoke earnestly and forgot herself entirely till something in the brown eyes looking down at her made her remember the cooling tea, and led the way into the parlor, saying she would call her mother. Everything was arranged by the time Laurie returned with a note from Aunt March, enclosing the desired sum and a few lines repeating what she had often said before, that she had always told them it was absurd for March to go into the army, always predicted that no good would come of it, and she hoped they would take her advice the next time. Mrs. March put the note in the fire, the money in her purse, and went on with her preparations, with her lips folded tightly in a way which Joe would have understood if she had been there. The short afternoon wore away. All other errands were done, and Meg and her mother busy at some necessary needlework, while Beth and Amy got tea, and Hannah finished her ironing with what she called a slap and a bang, but still Joe did not come. They began to get anxious, and Laurie went off to find her, for no one knew what freak Joe might take into her head. He missed her, however, and she came walking in with a very queer expression of countenance, for there was a mixture of fun and fear, satisfaction and regret in it, which puzzled the family, as much as did the role of bills she laid before her mother, saying with a little choke in her voice. That's my contribution toward making Father comfortable in bringing him home. My dear, where did you get it? Twenty-five dollars! Joe, I hope you haven't done anything rash. No, it's mine, honestly. I didn't beg, borrow, or steal it. I earned it, and I don't think you'll blame me, for I only sold what was my own. As she spoke, Joe took off her bonnet, and a general outcry arose, for all her abundant hair was cut short. Your hair! Your beautiful hair! Oh, Joe, how could you? You're one beauty! My dear girl, there was no need of this. She doesn't look like my Joe anymore, but I love her dearly for it. As everyone exclaimed and Beth hugged the cropped head tenderly, Joe assumed an indifferent air, which did not deceive anyone a particle, and said, rumbling up the brown bush and trying to look as if she liked it. It doesn't affect the fate of the nation, so don't wail, Beth. It will be good for my vanity. I was getting too proud of my wig. It will do my brains good to have that mop taken off. My head feels deliciously white and cool, and the barber said it could soon have a curly crop, which will be boyish, becoming and easy to keep in order. I'm satisfied, so please take the money and let's have supper. Tell me all about it, Joe. I'm not quite satisfied. But I can't blame you, for I know how willingly you sacrificed your vanity, as you call it, to your love. But, my dear, it was not necessary, and I'm afraid you will regret it one of these days, said Mrs. March. No, I won't, returned Joe stoutly, feeling much relieved that her prank was not entirely condemned. What made you do it? asked Amy, who would as soon have thought of cutting off her head as your pretty hair. Well, I was wild to do something for Father, replied Joe, as they gathered about the table, for healthy young people can eat even in the midst of trouble. I hate to borrow as much as Mother does, and I knew Aunt March would croak, she always does, if you ask for a ninepence. Meg gave all her quarterly salary toward the rent, and I only got some clothes with mine, so I felt wicked, and was bound to have some money if I sold the nose off my face to get it. You needn't feel wicked, my child. You had no winter things and got the simplest with your own hard earnings, said Mrs. March with a look. That warmed Joe's heart. I hadn't the least idea of selling my hair at first, but as I went along I kept thinking what I could do, and feeling as if I'd like to dive into some of the rich stores and help myself. In a barber's window I saw tails of hair with the prices marked, and one black tail, not so thick as mine, was forty dollars. It came to me all of a sudden that I had one thing to make money out of, and without stopping to think I walked in, asked if they bought hair, and what they would give for mine. I don't see how you dared to do it," said Beth in a tone of awe. Oh! he was a little man who looked as if he merely lived to oil his hair. He rather stared at first, as if he wasn't used to having girls bounce into his shop and ask him to buy their hair. He said he didn't care about mine, it wasn't the fashionable color, and he never paid much for it in the first place. The work put into it made it dear and so on. It was getting late, and I was afraid if it wasn't done right away that I shouldn't have it done at all, and you know when I start to do a thing I hate to give it up. So I begged him to take it, and told him why I was in such a hurry. It was silly, I daresay, but it changed his mind, for I got rather excited, and I told the story in my topsy-turvy way, and his wife heard, and said so kindly, take it, Thomas, and oblige the young lady. I'd do as much for our Jimmy in any day if I had a spire of hair worth selling. Who is Jimmy? asked Amy, who liked to have things explained as they went along. Her son, she said, who is in the army. How friendly such things make strangers feel, don't they? She talked away all the time the man clipped and diverted my mind nicely. Didn't you feel dreadfully when the first cut came? asked Meg with a shiver. I took a last look at my hair while the man got his things, and that was the end of it. I never snivel over trifles like that. I will confess, though, I felt queer when I saw the dear old hair laid out on the table, and felt only the short rough ends of my head. It almost seemed as if I'd an arm or leg off. The woman saw me look at it, and picked out a long lock for me to keep. I'll give it to you, Marmy, just to remember past glories by, for a crop is so comfortable I don't think I shall ever have a mane again. Mrs. March folded the wavy chestnut lock and laid it away with a short grey one in her desk. She only said, Thank you, dearie. But something in her face made the girls change the subject, and talk as cheerfully as they could about Mr. Brooke's kindness, the prospect of a fine day to-morrow, and the happy times they would have when father came home to be nursed. No one wanted to go to bed when at ten o'clock Mrs. March put by the last finished job and said, Come, girls! Beth went to the piano and played the father's favourite jam. All began bravely, but broke down one by one till Beth was left alone, singing with all her heart, for to her music was always a sweet consoler. Go to bed and don't talk, for we must be up early, and shall need all the sleep we can get. Good night, my darlings, said Mrs. March, as the hymn ended, for no one cared to try another. They kissed her quietly, and went to bed as silently as if the dear invalid lay in the next room. Beth and Amy soon fell asleep in spite of the great trouble, but Meg lay awake, thinking the most serious thoughts she had ever known in her short life. Joe lay motionless, and her sister fancied that she was asleep, till a stifled sob made her exclaim as she touched the wet cheek. Joe, dear, what is it? Are you crying about father? No, not now. What then? My, my hair! burst out, poor Joe, trying vainly to smother her emotion in the pillow. It did not seem at all comical to Meg, who kissed and caressed the afflicted heroine in the tenderest manner. I'm not sorry, protested Joe with a choke. I'd do it again tomorrow, if I could. It's only the vain part of me that goes and cries in this silly way. Don't tell any one. It's all over now. I thought you were asleep, so I just made a little private moan for my one beauty. How came you to be awake? I can't sleep. I'm so anxious, said Meg. Think about something pleasant, and you'll soon drop off. I tried it, but felt whiter awake than ever. What did you think of? Handsome faces, eyes particularly, answered Meg, smiling to herself in the dark. What color do you like best? Brown. That is, sometimes. Blue are lovely. Joe laughed, and Meg sharply ordered her not to talk, then amiably promised to make her hair curl, and fell asleep to dream of living in her castle in the air. The clocks were striking midnight, and the rooms were very still, as a figure glided quietly from bed to bed, smoothing a coverlet here, settling a pillow there, and pausing to look long and tenderly at each unconscious face, to kiss each with lips that mutely blessed, and to pray the fervent prayers which only mothers utter. As she lifted the curtain to look out into the dreary night, the moon broke suddenly from behind the clouds, and shone upon her like a bright, benignant face, which seemed to whisper in the silence. Be comforted, dear soul, there is always light behind the clouds. In the cold gray dawn the sisters lit their lamp and read their chapter with an earnestness never felt before. For now the shadow of a real trouble had come, the little books were full of help and comfort, and as they dressed they agreed to say goodbye cheerfully and hopefully, and send their mother on her anxious journey, unscathed by tears or complaints from them. Everything seemed very strange when they went down, so dim and still outside, so full of light and bustle within. Breakfast of that early hour seemed odd, and even Hannah's familiar face looked unnatural as she flew about her kitchen with her nightcap on. The big trunk stood ready in the hall, mother's cloak and bonnet lay on the sofa, and mother herself sat trying to eat, but looking so pale and worn with sleeplessness and anxiety that the girls found it very hard to keep their resolution. Meg's eyes kept filling in spite of herself, Joe was obliged to hide her face in the kitchen roller more than once, and the little girls were a grave, troubled expression, as if sorrow was a new experience to them. Nobody talked much, but as the time drew very near, and they sat waiting for the carriage, Mrs. March said to the girls who were all busy to bat her, one folding her shawl, another smoothing out the strings of her bonnet, a third putting on her overshoes, and a fourth fastening up her travelling bag. Children, I leave you to Hannah's care and Mr. Lawrence's protection. Hannah is faithfulness itself, and our good neighbor will guard you as if you were his own. I have no fears for you, yet I am anxious that you should take this trouble rightly. Don't grieve and fret while I am gone, or don't think that you can be idle and comfort yourselves by being idle and trying to forget. Go on with your work as usual, for work is a blessed solace. Hope and keep busy, and whatever happens, remember that you can never be fatherless. Yes, mother. Meg dear, be prudent, watch over your sisters, consult Hannah, and in any perplexity go to Mr. Lawrence. Be patient, Joe, don't get despondent or do rash things, write to me often, and be my brave girl, ready to help and cheer all. Beth, comfort yourself with your music and be faithful to the little home duties, and you, Amy, help all you can. Be obedient, and keep happy safe at home. We will, mother, we will! The rattle of an approaching carriage made them all start and listen. That was the hard minute, but the girls stood it well. No one cried, no one ran away or uttered a lamentation, though their hearts were very heavy as they sent loving messages to father, remembering as they spoke that it might be too late to deliver them. They kissed their mother quietly, clung about her tenderly, and tried to wave their hands cheerfully when she drove away. Lori and his grandfather came over to see her off, and Mr. Brook looked so strong and sensible and kind that the girls christened him Mr. Greatheart on the spot. Good-bye, my darlings! God bless and keep us all! with bird-murses march as she kissed one dear little face after the other and hurried into the carriage. As she rolled away the sun came out, and looking back she saw it shining on the group at the gate like a good omen. They saw it also, and smiled and waved their hands, and the last thing she beheld as she turned the corner was the four bright faces, and behind them like a bodyguard, old Mr. Lawrence, faithful Hannah, and devoted Lori. How kind everyone is to us, she said, turning to find fresh proof of it in the respectful sympathy of the young man's face. I don't see how they can help it, returned Mr. Brook, laughing so infectiously, that Mrs. March could not help smiling. And so the journey began with the good omens of sunshine, smiles, and cheerful words. I feel as if there had been an earthquake, said Joe, as their neighbors went home to breakfast, leaving them to rest and refresh themselves. It seems as if half the house was gone, added Meg for lonely. Beth opened her lips to say something, but could only point to the pile of nicely mended hose which lay on mother's table, showing that even in her last hurried moments she had thought and worked for them. It was a little thing, but it went straight to their hearts, and in spite of their brave resolutions they all broke down and cried bitterly. Hannah wisely allowed them to relieve their feelings, and when the shower shed signs of clearing up she came to the rescue, armed with a coffee pot. Now, my dear young ladies, remember what your mom said and don't fret. Come and have a cup of coffee all around, and then let's fall to work and be a credit to the family. Coffee was a treat, and Hannah showed great tact in making it that morning. No one could resist her persuasive nods or the fragrant invitation issuing from the nose of the coffee pot. They drew up to the table, exchanged their handkerchiefs for napkins, and in ten minutes were all right again. Hope and keep busy, that's the motto for us, so let's see who will remember it best. I shall go to Aunt March as usual. Oh, won't she lecture, though? said Jo, as she sipped with returning spirit. I shall go to my king's, though I'd much rather stay at home and attend to things here, said Meg, wishing she hadn't made her eyes so red. No need of that. Beth and I can keep the house perfectly well, put an Amy with an important air. Hannah will tell us what to do and will have everything nice when you come home, added Beth getting at her mop and dish tub without delay. I think anxiety is very interesting, observed Amy, eating sugar pensively. The girls couldn't help laughing and felt better for it, though Meg shook her head at the young lady who could find consolation in a sugar bowl. The sight of the turnovers made Jo sober again, and when the two went out to their daily tasks, they looked sorrowfully back at the window where they were accustomed to see their mother's face. It was gone, but Beth had remembered the little household ceremony, and there she was, nodding away at them like a rosy-faced mandarin. That's so like my Beth, said Jo, waving her hat with a grateful face. Good-bye, Maggie. I hope the kings won't strain today. Don't fret about Father, dear, she added, as they parted. And I hope Aunt March won't croak. Your hair is becoming, and it looks very boyish and nice, returned Meg, trying not to smile at the curly head, which looked comically small in her tall sister's shoulders. That's my only comfort, and, touching her hat a la lorry, away went Jo, feeling like a shorn sheep on a wintry day. News from their father comforted the girls very much, for though dangerously ill, the presence of the best and tenderest nurses had already done him good. Mr. Brooks sent a bulletin every day, and as the head of the family, Meg insisted on reading the dispatches, which grew more cheerful as the week passed. At first, everyone was eager to write, and plump envelopes were carefully poked into the letterbox by one or other of the sisters, who felt rather important with their Washington correspondence. As one of these packets contained characteristic notes from the party, we will rob an imaginary mail, and read them. My dearest mother, it is impossible to tell you how happy your last letter made us, for the news was so good we couldn't help laughing and crying over it. How very kind Mr. Brooks is, and how fortunate that Mr. Lawrence's business detains him near you so long, since he is so useful to you and Father. The girls are all as good as gold. Joe helps me with the sewing, and insists on doing all sorts of hard jobs. I should be afraid she might overdo, if I didn't know her moral fit wouldn't last long. Beth is as regular about her tasks as a clock, and never forgets what you told her. She grieves about Father and looks sober except when she's at her little piano. Amy minds me nicely, and I take great care of her. She does her own hair, and I am teaching her to make buttonholes and mend her stockings. She tries very hard, and I know you will be pleased with her improvement when you come. Mr. Lawrence watches over us like a motherly old hen, as Joe says, and Lori is very kind and neighborly. He and Joe keep us merry, for we get pretty blue sometimes, and feel like orphans with you so far away. Hannah is a perfect saint. She does not scold at all, and always calls me Miss Margaret, which is quite proper, you know, and treats me with respect. We're all well and busy, but we long day and night to have you back. Give my dearest love to Father, and believe me, ever your own, Meg. This note, prettily written on scented paper, was a great contrast to the next, which was scribbled on a big sheet of thin foreign paper ornamented with blots and all manner of flourishes and curly-tail letters. My precious Marmee, three cheers for dear Father. Brooke was a trump to telegraph right off, and let us know the minute he was better. I rushed up Garrett when the letter came, and tried to thank God for being so good to us, but I could only cry and say, I'm glad, I'm glad. Didn't that do as well as a regular prayer? For I felt a great many in my heart. We have such funny times, and now I can enjoy them, for everyone's so desperately good it's like living in a nest of turtle dubs. You laugh to see Meg head the table and try to be motherish. She gets prettier every day, and I'm in love with her sometimes. The children are regular archangels, and I, well, I'm Joe, and never shall be anything else. Oh, I must tell you that I came near having a quarrel with Lori. I freed my mind about a silly little thing, and he was offended. I was right, but I didn't speak as I ought, and he marched home, saying he wouldn't come again till I begged pardon. I declared I wouldn't and got mad. It lasted all day. I felt bad and wanted you very much. Lori and I are both so proud it's hard to beg pardon. But I thought he'd come to it, for I was in the right. He didn't come, and just at night I remembered what you said when Amy fell into the river. I read my little book, felt better, resolved not to let the sun set on my anger, and ran over to tell Lori I was sorry. I met him at the gate coming for the same thing. We both laughed, begged each other's pardon, and felt all good and comfortable again. I made a poem yesterday when I was helping Hannah wash, and his father likes my silly little things. I put it into a museum. Give him my lovingest hug that ever was, and kiss yourself a dozen times for your topsy-turvy joe. A song from the suds. Queen of my tub I'm merrily singing, while the white foam rises high, and sturdily wash and rinse and wring, and fasten the clothes to dry. Then out in the free fresh air they swing, under the sunny sky. I wish we could wash from our hearts and souls the stains of the week away, and let water and air by their magic make ourselves as pure as they. Then on the earth there would be indeed a glorious washing day. Along the path of a useful life will heart-seize ever bloom. The busy mind has no time to think of sorrow or care or gloom, and anxious thoughts may be swept away as we bravely wield a broom. I'm glad a task to me is given to labor at day by day, for it brings me health and strength and hope, and I cheerfully learn to say, head you may think, heart you may feel, but hand you shall work all way. Dear mother, there's only room for me to send my love, and some pressed pansies from the writ I've been keeping safe in the house for father to see. I read every morning, try to be good all day, and sing myself to sleep with father's tune. I can't sing land of the leal now, it makes me cry. Everyone's very kind, and we're as happy as we can be without you. Amy wants the rest of the page, so I must stop. I didn't forget to cover the holders, and I wind the clock and air the rooms every day. Kiss dear father on the cheek he calls mine. Oh, do come soon to your loving little Beth. My share, mama. We are all well, I do my lessons always, and never corroborate the girls. Meg says I mean contradict, so I put in both words, and you can take the properest. Meg is a great comfort to me, and lets me have jelly every night at tea, it's so good for me, Joe says, because it keeps me sweet-tempered. Laurie is not as respectful as he ought to be, now I am almost to my teens. He calls me chick, and hurts my feelings by talking French to me, very fast when I say merci or bonjour as Hattie King does. The sleeves of my blue dress were all worn out, and Meg put in new ones, but the full front came wrong, and they are more blue than the dress. I felt bad, but did not fret, I bear my troubles well, but I do wish Hannah would put more starch in my aprons and have buckwheats every day. Can't she? Didn't I make that interrogation point nice? Meg says my punctuation and spelling are disgraceful, and I am mortified, but dear me I have so many things to do I can't stop. At you I send heaps of love to papa. You're a affectionate daughter, Amy Curtis March. Dear Ms. March, I just drop a line to say we get on first right. The girls is clever and fly around right smart. Miss Meg is going to make a proper good housekeeper. She has the liking for it, and gets the hang of things surprising quick. Joe does beat all for going ahead, but she don't stop to calculate first, and you never know where she's like to bring up. She dend out a tub of clothes on Monday, but she starts to before they was wrenched, and blew a pink calico dress till I thought I should have died a laughing. Beth is the best of the little creatures, and a sight of help to me being so forehand and dependable. She tries to learn everything, and really goes to market beyond her years, likewise keeps accounts with my help. Quite wonderful. We've got on very economical so far. I don't let the girls have coffee only once a week, according to your wish, and keep them on plain wholesome vittles. Amy does well without fretting, wearing her best clothes and eating sweet stuff. Mr. Lorrie is as full as dittos as usual, and turns the house upside down frequent, but he heartens the girls, so I let him have full swing. The old gentleman sends heaps of things and is rather wearing, but means well, and I ate my place to say nothing. My bread is risen no more at this time. I send my duty to Mr. March, and hope he's seen the last of his pymonia. Yours respectful, Hannah Mullet. Head nurse of ward number two. All serene on the rabahantic, troops in fine condition, commissary department well conducted, the home guard under Colonel Teddy always on duty, commander-in-chief General Lawrence reviews the army daily, quartermaster Mullet keeps order in camp, and major lion does pick a duty at night. A salute of 24 guns was fired on receipt of good news from Washington, and a dress parade took place at headquarters. Commander-in-chief sends best wishes in which he is heartily joined by Colonel Teddy. Dear madam, the little girls are all well. Beth and my boy report daily. Hannah is a model servant, and guards pretty mag like a dragon. Glad the fine weather holds. Pray make brook useful, and draw on me for funds if expenses exceed your estimate. Don't let your husband want anything. Thank God he is mending. Your sincere friend and servant, James Lawrence. By Luisa Mayalkott. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Little Women by Luisa Mayalkott. Chapter 17. Little Faithful. Red by Erin Lebowitz. For a week the amount of virtue in the old house would have supplied the neighborhood. It was really amazing, for everyone seemed in a heavenly frame of mind, and self-denial was all the fashion. Relieved of their first anxiety about their father, the girls insensibly relaxed their praiseworthy efforts little, and began to fall back into old ways. They did not forget their motto, but hoping and keeping busy seemed to grow easier, and after such tremendous exertions they felt that they never deserved a holiday, and gave it the good many. Joe caught a bad cold through neglect to cover the shorn head enough, and was ordered to stay at home till she was better. But for Aunt Marsh didn't like to hear people read with colds in their heads. Joe liked this, and after an energetic rummage from Garrett to sell her, subsided on the sofa to nurse her cold with Arne Sinicum and books. Amy found that housework and art did not go well together, and returned to her mud pies. Meg went daily to her pupils and sewed, or thought she did, at home. But much time was spent in writing long letters to her mother, or reading the Washington dispatches over and over. Beth kept on with only slight relapses to idleness or grieving. All the little deities were faithfully done each day, and many of her sisters also, for they were forgetful, and the house seemed like a clock whose pendulum was gone and visiting. When her heart got heavy with longings for her mother or fears for her father, she went away into a certain closet, hid her face in the folds of a dear old gown, and made her little moan, and prayed her little prayer quietly by herself. Nobody knew what cheered her up after a sober fit, but everybody felt how sweet and helpful Beth was, and fell into a way of going to her for comfort or advice in their small affairs. All were unconscious that this experience was a test of character, and when the first excitement was over, felt that they had done well and deserved praise. So they did, but their mistake was in ceasing to do well, and they learned this lesson through much anxiety and regret. Meg, I wish you to go see the Hummels. You know Mother told us not to forget them, said Beth, ten days after Mrs. Marsh's departure. I'm too tired to go this afternoon, replied Meg, rocking comfortably as she soared. Can't you, Joe? asked Beth, to storm me from you with my cold. Now I thought it was almost as well. It's well enough for me to go out with Laurie, but not well enough to go to the Hummels, said Joe, laughing, but looking a little ashamed of her inconsistency. Why don't you go for yourself, asked Meg? I have been every day, but the baby is sick. I don't know what to do for it. Mrs. Hummels goes away to work, and Lachin takes care of it, but he gets sicker and sicker and I think you are a hand all to go. Beth spoke earnestly, and Meg promised she would go tomorrow. Ask Hannah for some nice little mess and take it round, Beth. The air will do you good, said Joe, adding apologetically. I'd go, but I want to finish my riding. My headaches, and I'm tired, so I thought maybe some of you would go, said Beth. Amy will be in presently, and she will run down for us, suggested Meg. So Beth laid down on the sofa. The others returned to their work, and the Hummels were forgotten. An hour passed. Amy did not come. Meg went to her room to try on a new dress. Joe was absorbed in her story, and Hannah was sound asleep before the kitchen fire. When Beth quietly put on her hood, filled her basket with odds and ends for the poor children, I went out into the chill air with a heavy head and a grieve look in her patient eyes. It was late when she came back, and no one saw her creep upstairs and shut herself into her mother's room. Half an hour after, Joe went to mother's closet for something, and there found little Beth sitting in the medicine chest, looking very grave, with red eyes and a camphor bottle in her hands. Christopher Columbus, what's the matter, cried Joe, as Beth put out her hand as if to warn her off and ask quickly. You've had the scarlet fever, haven't you? Years ago, when Meg did, why? Then I'll tell you. Joe, the baby's dead. What baby? Miss those Hummels and died in my lap before she got home. cried Beth with a sob. My poor dear, how dreadful for you, I ought to have gone, said Joe, taking her sister in her arms as she sat down in her mother's bed chair with a remorseful face. It was a dreadful Joe, only sad. I saw in the minute it was sicker, but largely instead her mother had gone for a doctor, so I took baby and let Lottie rest. It seemed to sleep, but all of a sudden it gave a little cry and trembled, and then lay very still. I tried to warm its feet and Lottie gave it some milk, but it didn't stir, and I knew it was good. Don't cry, dear. What did you do? I just sat and held it softly till Mrs. Hummels came with the doctor. He said it was dead and looked good and rich and made a little sore throat. Scarlet fever, ma'am. I'll do him call me before he's at cross late. Mrs. Hummels told him she was poor and tried to cure the baby herself, but it was too late. She could only ask him to help the others and trust the charity for his pay. He smiled then and was kinder, but it was very sad, and I cried with them till he turned around all of a sudden, told me to go home and take Bella Donna right away, or I'd have the fever. No, you won't, cried Joe, hugging her close with a frightened look. Oh, Beth, if you should be sick, I could never forgive myself. What shall we do? Don't be frightened. I guess I shouldn't have it that badly. I looked at Mother's book, and saw that it begins with headache, sore throat, and queer feelings like mine. So I did take some Bella Donna. I feel better, said Beth, laying her cold hands on her hot forehead and trying to look well. If Mother was only at home, exclaimed Joe, seizing the book and feeling that Washington was an immense way off. She read a page, looked at Beth, felt her head, puked into her throat, and then said gravely, you've been over the baby every day for more than a week, and among the others who are going to have it. So I'm afraid you're going to have it, Beth. I'll call Hannah, she knows all about sickness. Don't let Amy come. She never had it, and I should hate to give it to her. Can't you with Meg have it over again? Ask Beth anxiously. I guess not. Don't care if I do, serve me right selfish pig to let you go, and stay writing rubbish myself. Mother, Joe, as she went to consult Hannah, the good soul was wide awake in a minute, and took the lead at once, assuring that there was no need to worry. Everyone had scarlet fever, and if rightly treated, nobody died, all of which Joe believed, and felt much relieved as they went up to call Meg. Now I'll tell you what we'll do, said Hannah, and she had examined and questioned Beth. We will have Dr. Bangs just to take a look at you, dear, and see that we start right. Then we'll send Amy off to Aunt March's for a spell to keep her out of harm's way, and one of you girls can stay at home and amuse Beth for a day or two. I shall say, of course, I'm oldest, began Meg looking anxious and self-reproachful. I shall, because it's my fault she's sick, I told Mother I'd do the errands, and I haven't, said Joe decidedly. Which will you have, Beth? There ain't no need of but one, said Hannah. Joe, please, and Beth leaned her head against her sister with a contented look, which effectually settled that point. I'll go and tell Amy, said Meg, feeling a little hurt, yet rather relieved on the whole, for she did not like nursing, and Joe did. Amy rebelled outright, and passionately declared that she would rather have the fever than go down to Aunt March. Meg reasoned, pleaded, and commanded, all in vain. Amy protested that she would not go, and Meg left her in despair to ask Hannah what should be done. Before she came back, Laurie walked into the parlor to find Amy sobbing, with her head in the sofa cushions. She told her story expecting to be consoled, but Laurie only put his hands in his pockets and walked about the room, whistling softly as he knit his brows in deep thought. Presently, he sat down beside her and said in his most weevilsome tone, and be a sensible little woman, and do as they say. No, don't cry, but hear what the jolly plan I've got. You go to Aunt March's, and I'll come and take you out every day, driving or walking, and we'll have capital times. Won't that be better than moping here? I don't wish to be sent off as if I was in the way, began Amy in an injured voice. Bless your heart, child, just to keep you well. You don't want to be sick, do you? No, I'm sure I don't, but I dare say I shall be, for I've been with Beth all the time. That's the very reason you ought to go away at once, so that you may escape it. Change of air and care will keep you well, I dare say, or if it does not entirely, you will have the fever more lightly. I advise you to be off as soon as you can, for scarlet fever is no joke, miss. But it's dull at Aunt March's, and she's so cross, said Amy, and looking rather frightened. It won't be dull with me popping in every day to tell you how Beth is, and take you out gallivanting. The old lady likes me, and I'll be as sweet as possible to her, so she won't peck at us, whatever we do. Will you take me out in the tri-ling-ragging with Puck? On my honor, as a gentleman, and come every single day, see if I don't, and bring me back the minute, Beth, as well, the identical minute, and go to the theater, truly, a dozen theaters, if we may. Well, I guess I will, said Amy slowly. Good girl, call Meg and tell her you'll give in, said Laurie, with an approving pat, which annoyed Amy more than the giving in. Meg and Joe came running down to behold America, which had been wrought, and Amy, feeling very precious and self-sacrificing, promised to go, as the doctor said Beth was going to be ill. How is the little dear? asked Laurie. For Beth was as a special pet, and he felt more anxious about her than he liked to show. She's lying down in mother's bed and feels better. The baby's death troubled her, but I dare say she has only got cold. Hannah says she thinks so, but she looks worried, and that makes me fidgety, answered Meg. What a trying world it is, said Joe, rumpling up her hair in a fretful way. No sooner do we get out of one trouble than down comes another. It doesn't seem to be anything to hold on to when mother's gone, so I'm all at sea. Well, don't make a porcupine of yourself, it isn't becoming. Settle your wig, Joe, and tell me if I shan't telegraph to your mother, or do anything. Asked Laurie, who never have been reconciled to the loss of his friend's one beauty. That's what troubles me, said Meg. I think we ought to tell her if Beth is really ill, but Hannah says we mustn't, for mother can't leave father, and they will only make them anxious. Beth won't be sick long, and Hannah knows just what to do, and mother said we were to monitor, so I suppose we must, but it doesn't seem quite right to me. Hum. Well, I can't say. Supposed to ask grandfather after the doctor has been. We will. Joe, go and get doctor bangs at once, commanded Meg. We can't decide anything till he has been. Stay where you are, Joe. I'm Aaron Boyd at this establishment, said Laurie, taking up his cap. I'm afraid you're busy, began Meg. No, I've done my lessons for the day. Do you study in vacation time? asked Joe. I follow the good example my neighbor set me, was Laurie's answer, as he swung himself out of the room. I have great hopes for my boy, observed Joe, watching him fly over the finch with an approving smile. He does very well for a boy, was Meg's somewhat ungracious answer, for the subject did not interest her. Doctor Bangs came, said Beth had symptoms of the fever, but he thought she would have it lightly, though he looked sober over the Hummel story. Amy was ordered off at once, and provided with something to ward off danger. She departed in great state, with Joe and Laurie as escort. Aunt March received him with her usual hospitality. What do you want now? she asked, looking sharply over her spectacles, while the parrot, sitting on the back of the chair, called out, Go away, no boy's allowed here. Laurie retired to the window, and Joe told her story. No more than I expected, if you're allowed to go poking about among poor folks. Amy could stay and make herself useful if she isn't sick, which I've no doubt she will be, looks like it now. Don't cry, child, it worries me to hear people sniff. Amy was on the point of crying, but Laurie slowly pulled the parrot's tail, which caused Polly to utter in the astonished croak and call out, Bless my boots! in such a funny way that she laughed instead. What do you hear from your mother? asked the old lady gruffly. Father is much better, replied Joe, trying to keep sober. Oh, is he? Well, that won't last long, I fancy. March never had any stamina. Was the cheerful reply? Ha ha, never say die, take me just enough, goodbye, goodbye. It's called Polly, dancing on her perch, and clawing at the old lady's cap as Laurie tweaked him in the rear. Hold your tongue, you disrespectful old bird, and Joe you'd better go at once, it isn't proper to be getting about so late with a rattle-pedded boy like, Hold your tongue, you disrespectful old bird! cried Polly, tumbling off the chair with a bounce, and running to peck the rattle-pedded boy who was shaking with laughter at the last speech. I don't think I can bear it, but I'll try, thought Amy, as she was left alone with Aunt March. Get along, you fright! screamed Polly, and at that rude speech Amy could not restrain the sniff. End of Chapter 17 Recording by Catherine Burke Mueller Little Women by Louisa May Elcott Chapter 18 Dark Days Beth did have the fever, and was much sicker than anyone met Hannah and the doctor suspected. The girls knew nothing about illness, and Mr. Lawrence was not allowed to see her, so Hannah had everything her own way, and busy Dr. Bangs did his best, but left a good deal to the excellent nurse. Meg stayed at home, lest she should infect the kings, and kept house. Feeling very anxious and a little guilty when she wrote letters in which she made no mention of Beth's illness. She could not think it right to deceive her mother, but she had been bitten to mind Hannah, and Hannah wouldn't hear of Mrs. March being told, and worried just for such a trifle. Joe devoted herself to Beth day and night, not a hard task, for Beth was very patient, and bore her pain uncomplainingly as long as she could control herself. But there came a time when, during the fever fits, she began to talk in a hoarse, broken voice. To play on the coverlet is it, on her beloved little piano, and try to sing with the throat, so swollen that there was no music left. A time when she did not know the familiar faces around her, but addressed them by wrong names, and called imploringly for her mother. Then, Joe grew frightened. Meg begged to be allowed to write the truth, and even Hannah said she would think of it, though there is no danger yet. A letter from Washington added to their trouble for Mr. March had had a relapse, and could not think of coming home for a long while. How dark the day seemed now, how sad and lonely the house, and how heavy were the hearts of the sisters as they worked and waited, while the shadow of death hovered over the once happy home. Then it was that Margaret, sitting alone with tears dropping off and on her work, felt how rich she had been in things more precious than any luxuries money could buy. In love, protection, peace, and health, the real blessings of life. Then it was that Joe, living in the darkened room with that suffering little sister always before her eyes, and the pathetic voice sounding in her ears, learned to see the beauty and the sweetness of Beth's nature, to feel how deep and tender a place she filled in all hearts, and to acknowledge the worth of Beth's unselfish ambition to live for others, and make home happy by that exercise of those simple virtues which all may possess, and which all should love and value more than talent, wealth, or beauty. In Amy, in her exile, longed eagerly to be at home, that she might work for Beth, feeling now that no service would be hard or irksome, and remembering with regretful grief. How many neglected tasks those willing hands had done for her. Lori haunted the house like a restless ghost, and Mr. Lawrence locked the grand piano, because he could not bear to be reminded of the young neighbor who used to make the twilight pleasant for him. Everyone missed Beth. The milkman baker grocer and butcher inquired how she did. Poor Mrs. Hummel came to beg pardon for her thoughtlessness, and to get a shroud for Mina. The neighbor sent all sorts of comforts and good wishes, and even those who knew her best were surprised to find how many friends shy little Beth had made. Meanwhile, she lay on her bed, with old Joanne at her side, for even in her wandering she did not forget her forlorn protege. She longed for her cats, but would not have them brought, lest they should get sick. And in her quiet hour she was full of anxiety about Jo. She sent loving messages to Amy. Theyed them tell her mother that she would write soon, and often begged for pencil and paper to say a word that father might not think she had neglected him. But soon even these intervals of consciousness ended, and she lay hour after hour tossing to and fro incoherent words on her lips, or sank into a heavy sleep which brought her no refreshment. Dr. Banks came twice a day. Hannah sat up at night. Beth kept a telegram in her desk already to send off at any minute, and Jo never stirred from Beth's side. The first of December was a wintry day, indeed to them, for a bitter wind-blue snow fell fast in the weir. The first of December was a wintry day, indeed to them, for a bitter wind-blue snow fell fast in the weir seemed getting ready for its death. When Dr. Banks came that morning, he looked long at Beth, held the hot hand in both his own for a minute, and laid it gently down, saying, in a low voice to Hannah, if Mrs. March can leave her husband, she better be sent for. Hannah nodded, without speaking, for her lips twitched nervously. Meg dropped down into a chair as the strength seemed to go out of her limbs at the sound of those words, and Jo, standing with a pale face for a minute, ran to the parlor, snatched up the telegram, and throwing on her things rushed out into the storm. She was soon back, and while noiselessly taking off her cloak, Laurie came in with a letter, saying that Mr. March was mending again. Jo read it thankfully, but the heavy weight did not seem lifted off her heart, and her face was so full of misery that Laurie asked quickly, What is it? Is Beth worse? I've sent for mother, said Jo, tugging at her rubber boots with a tragic expression. Good for you, Jo! Did you do it on your own responsibility? Asked Laurie, as he seated her in the hall chair, and took off the rebellious boots, seeing how her hands shook. No, the doctor told us to. Oh, Jo, it's not so bad as that, cried Laurie with a startled face. Yes, it is. She doesn't know us. She doesn't even talk about the flocks of green doves as she calls the vine leaves on the wall. She doesn't look like my Beth, and there's nobody to help us bear it. Mother and father both gone, and God seems so far away, I can't find him. As the tears streamed fast down poor Jo's cheeks, she stretched out her hand in a helpless sort of way, as if groping in the dark, and Laurie took it in his, whispering as well as he could with a lump in his throat. I'm here. Hold on to me, Jo, dear. She could not speak, but she did hold on. And the warm grasp of a friendly human hand comforted her sore heart, and seemed to lead her nearer to the divine arm which alone could uphold her in her trouble. Laurie longed to say something tender and comfortable, but no fitting words came to him, so he stood silent, gently stroking her bent head as his mother used to do. It was the best thing he could have done, far more soothing than the most eloquent words, for Jo felt the unspoken sympathy, and in the silence learned the sweet solace which affection administers to sorrow. Soon she dried the tears, which had relieved her, and looked up with a grateful face. Thank you, Teddy. I'm better now. I don't feel so forlorn, and we'll try to bear it if it comes. Keep hoping for the best. That will help you, Jo. Soon your mother will be here, and everything will be all right. I'm so glad Father's better. Now she won't feel so bad about leaving him. Oh, me! It does seem as if all the troubles came in a heap, and I got the heaviest part on my shoulders, sighed Jo, spreading her wet handkerchief over her knees to dry. Doesn't Meg pull fair? Asked Lori, looking indignant. Oh yes, she tries to, but she can't love Beth as I do, and she won't miss her as I shall. Beth is my conscious, and I can't give her up. I can't! I can't! Down went Jo's face into the white handkerchief, and she cried despairingly, for she had kept up bravely till now and never shed a tear. Lori drew his hand across his eyes, but could not speak, till he had subdued the chokey feeling in his throat and steadied his lips. It might be unmanly, but he couldn't help it, and I am glad of it. Presently, as Jo sobs quieted, he said hopefully, I don't think she will die. She's so good. We all love her so much. I don't believe God will take her away yet. The good and dear people always do die, groaned Jo. But she stopped crying, for her friend's words cheered her up in spite of her own doubts and fears. Poor girl, you're worn out. It isn't like you to be forlorn. Stop a bit. I'll heart you up in a jiffy. Lori went off two stairs at a time, and Jo laid her wearied head down on Beth's little brown hood, which no one had thought of moving from the table where she left it. It must have possessed some magic. For the submissive spirit of its gentle owner seemed to enter into Jo, and when Lori came running down with a glass of wine, she took it with a smile and said bravely, I drink health to my bath. You are a good doctor, Teddy. It's such a comfortable friend. How can I ever pay you, she added, as the wine refreshed her body, as the kind words had done to her troubled mind. I'll send my bill, buy and buy, and tonight I'll give you something that will warm the cockles of your heart. Better than quarts of wine, said Lori, beaming at her with the face of suppressed satisfaction at something. What is it? cried Jo, forgetting her woes for a minute in your wonder. I telegraphed to her mother yesterday, and Brooke answered. She'd come at once, and she'll be here tonight, and everything will be all right. Aren't you glad I did it? Lori spoke very fast, and turned red and excited all in a minute, for he had kept his plot a secret, for fear of disappointing the girls or harming bath. Jo grew quite white, flew out of her chair, and the moment he stopped speaking, she electrified him by throwing her arms around his neck, and crying out with a joyful cry. Oh, Lori! Oh, mother, I am so glad! She did not weep again, but laughed hysterically, and trembled and clung to her friend as if she was a little bewildered by the sudden news. Lori, though decidedly amazed, behaved with great presence of mind. He padded her back soothingly, and finding that she was recovering, followed it up by a bashful kiss or two, which brought Jo round at once. Holding onto the manisters, she put him away gently, saying breathlessly, oh don't, I didn't mean to. It was dreadful of me, but you were such a deer to go and do it, in spite of Hannah that I couldn't help flying at you. Tell me all about it, and don't give me wine again, it makes me act so. I don't mind, left Lori as he settled his tie. While you see, I got fidgety, and so did Grandpa. We thought Hannah was overdoing the authority of business, and your mother ought to know. She never forgives us, but, well, if anything happened, you know. So I got Grandpa to say it was high time we did something, and off I pelted to the office yesterday, for the doctor looked sober, and Hannah most took my head off when I proposed a telegram. I never can bear to be lorded over, so that settled my mind, and I did it. Your mother will come, I know. And the lay train is in it, two a.m. I shall go for her, and you've only got to bottle up your rapture and keep Beth quiet till that blessed lady gets here. Lori, you're an angel. How shall I ever thank you? Fly at me again, I rather liked it, said Lori, looking mischievous, a thing he had not done for a fortnight. No, thank you. I'll do it by proxy when your grandpa comes. Don't tease, but go home and rest, for you'll be up half the night. Bless you, Teddy, bless you. Joe had backed into a corner, and as she finished her speech, she vanished precipitably into the kitchen, where she sat down upon a dresser, and told the assembled cats that she was happy—oh, so happy!—while Lori departed, feeling that he had made a rather neat thing of it. That's the interferingest chap I ever see, but I forgive him, and do hope Ms. March is coming right away, said Hannah, with an air of relief when Joe told the good news. Meg had a quiet rapture, and then brooded over the letter, while Joe set the sick room in order, and Hannah knocked up a couple pies in case of company unexpected. A breath of fresh air seemed to blow through the house, when something better than sunshine brightened the quiet rooms. Everything appeared to feel the hopeful change. Beth's burn began to chirp again, and half-blown rose was discovered on Amy's bush in the window. The fires seemed to burn with unusual cheeriness, and every time the girls met, their pale faces broke into smiles as they hugged one another, whispering encouragingly, Mother's coming, dear, Mother's coming. Everyone rejoiced, but Beth. She lay in that heavy stupor, alike unconscious of hope and joy, doubt and danger. It was a piteous sight. The one's rosy face, so changed and vacant. The one's busy hands, so weak and wasted. The one's smiling lips, quite dumb. And the one's pretty, well-kept hair, scattered rough, entangled on the pillow. All day she lay so, only rousing now and then to mutter, water, with lips so parched that could hardly shape the word. All day Joe and Meg hovered over her, watching, waiting, hoping, entrusting in God and Mother. In all day the snow fell, the bitter wind raged, and the hours dragged slowly by. But night came at last, and every time the clock struck, the sisters, still sitting on either side of the bed, looked at each other, with brightening eyes. For each hour brought help nearer. The doctor had been in to say that some change, for better or worse, would probably take place about midnight, at which time he would return. Hannah, quite worn out, lay down on the sofa at the bed's foot and fell fast asleep. Mr. Lawrence marched to and fro in the parlor, feeling that he would rather face a rebel battery than Mrs. March's countenance as she entered. Lori lay on the rug, pretending to rest, but staring into the fire with a thoughtful look, which made his black eyes beautifully soft and clear. The girls never forgot that night, for no sleep came to them, as they kept their watch, with that dreadful sense of powerlessness which comes to us in hours like those. If God spares Beth, I never will complain again, whispered Meg earnestly. If God spares Beth, I'll try to love and serve him all my life, answered Joe with equal fervor. I wish I had no heart. It aches so, sighed Meg after a pause. If life is often as hard as this, I don't see how we ever shall get through it, added her sister despondently. Here the clock struck twelve, and both forgot themselves in watching Beth, for they fancied a change passed over her wand face. The house was still as death, and nothing but the wailing of the wind broke the deposh. Rary Hannah slept on, and no one but the sisters saw the pale shadow which seemed to fall upon the little bed. An hour went by, and nothing happened except Lori's quiet departure for the station. Another hour, still no one came, and anxious fears of delay in the storm or accidents, by the way, or worse of all, a great grief at Washington haunt to the girls. It was past two when Joe, who stood at the window thinking how dreary the world looked in its winding sheet of snow, heard a movement by this bed, and turning quickly, saw Meg kneeling before their mother's easy chair with her face hidden. The dreadful fear passed coldly over Joe as she thought, Beth is dead, and Meg is afraid to tell me. She was back at her post in an instant, and to her excited eyes a great change seemed to have taken place. The fever flesh and the look of pain were gone, and the beloved little face looked so pale and peaceful in its utter repose that Joe felt no desire to weep or to lament. Leaning low over this dearest of her sisters, she kissed the damp forehead with her heart on her lips, and softly whispered, Goodbye, my Beth, goodbye. As if awake by the stir, Hannah started out of her sleep, hurried to the bed, looked at Beth, felt her hands, listened at her lips, and then, throwing her apron over her head, sat down to rock, chew and fro, exclaiming under her breath. The fever's turned, she's sleeping, natural. Her skin's damp and she breathes easy. Praise be given, oh my goodness me. Before the girls could believe the happy truth, the doctor came to confirm it. He was a homely man, but they thought his face quite heavenly when he smiled and said with a fatherly look at them, Yes, my dears, I think the little girl will pull through this time. Keep the house quiet, let her sleep. And when she wakes, give her what they were to give her, neither heard, for both crept into the dark hall, and sitting on the stairs, held each other close, rejoicing with hearts, two full for words. When they went back to be kissed and cuddled by faithful Hannah, they found Beth lying, as she used to do, with her cheek pillowed on her hand. The dreadful pallor gone and breathing quietly is if just fallen asleep. If mother would only come now, said Joe as the winter night began to wane. See, said Meg, coming up with a white half-open rose, I thought this would hardly be ready to lay in Beth's hand tomorrow if she went from us. But it has blossomed in the night, and now I mean to put it in my vase here, so that when the darling wakes, the first thing she sees will be the little rose and mother's face. Never had the sun risen so beautifully, and never had the world seemed so lovely as it did to the heavy eyes of Meg and Joe as they looked out in the early morning when their long, sad vigil was done. It looks like a fairy world, said Meg, smiling to herself as she stood behind the curtain, watching the dazzling sight. Hark! cried Joe, starting to her feet. Yes, there was a sound of bells at the door below, a cry from Hannah, and then Laurie's voice saying in a joyful whisper, girls, she's come, she's come! End of Chapter 18 Chapter 19 of Little Women This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Catherine Burke-Mueller. Little Women by Louisa May-Alcott Chapter 19 Amy's Will While these things were happening at home, Amy was having hard times at Aunt March's. She felt her exile deeply, and for the first time in her life realized how much she was beloved and petted at home. Aunt March never petted anyone, she did not approve of it, but she meant to be kind for the well-behaved little girl pleased her very much, and Aunt March had a soft place in her old heart for her nephew's children, though she didn't think it proper to confess it. She really did her best to make Amy happy, but dear me, what mistakes she made! Some old people keep young at heart in spite of wrinkles and gray hairs, can sympathize with children's little cares and joys, make them feel at home, and can hide wise lessons under pleasant plays, giving and receiving friendship in the sweetest way. But Aunt March had not this gift, and she worried Amy very much, with her rules and orders, her prim ways and long, prosy talks. Finding the child more docile and amiable than her sister, the old lady felt it her duty to try and counteract, as far as possible, the bad effects of home freedom and indulgence. So she took Amy by the hand, and taught her as she herself had been taught sixty years ago, a process which carried dismay to Amy's soul, and made her feel like a fly in the web of a very strict spider. She had to wash the cups every morning, and polish up the old-fashioned spoons, the fat silver teapot in the glasses till they shone. Then she must dust the room, and what a trying job that was. Not a speck escaped Aunt March's eye, and all the furniture had clawed legs and much carving, which was never dust to desuit. Then Polly had to be fed. The lapdog combed, and a dozen trips upstairs and down to get things or deliver orders, for the old lady was very lame, and seldom left her big chair. After these tiresome labours she must do her lessons, which was a daily trial of every virtue she possessed. Then she was allowed one hour for exercise or play, and didn't she enjoy it? Lori came every day, and weedled Aunt March till Amy was allowed to go out with him, when they walked and rode in it capital times. After dinner she had to read aloud, and sit still while the old lady slept, which she usually did for an hour, as she dropped off over the first page. Then patchwork or towels appeared, and Amy sewed with outward meekness and inward rebellion till dusk, when she was allowed to amuse herself as she liked till tea time. The evenings were the worst of all, for Aunt March fell to telling long stories about her youth, which were so unutterably dull that Amy was always ready to go to bed, intending to cry over her hard fate, but usually going to sleep before she had squeezed out more than a tear or two. If it had not been for Lori, and Old Esther the maid, she felt that she never could have got through that dreadful time. The parrot alone was enough to drive her distracted, for he soon felt that she did not admire him, and revenged himself by being as mischievous as possible. He pulled her hair whenever she came near him, upside his bread and milk to plague her, when she had newly cleaned his cage, made mop bark by pecking at him while Madam Dozed called her names before company, and behaved in all respects like a reprehensible old bird. Then she could not endure the dog, a fat cross-beast, who snarled and yelped at her when she made his toilet, and who lay on his back with all his legs in the air, in a most idiotic expression of countenance when he wanted something to eat, which was about a dozen times a day. The cook was bad-tempered, the old coachman was deaf, and Esther the only one who ever took any notice of the young lady. Esther was a French woman, who had lived with Madame, as she called her mistress, for many years, and who rather tyrannized over the old lady who could not get along without her. Her real name was Estelle, but, at March, ordered her to change it, and she obeyed, on condition that she was never asked to change her religion. She took a fancy to Memozal, and amused her very much with odd stories of her life in France when Amy sat with her while she got up Madame's laces. She also allowed her to roam about the Great House, and examine the curious and pretty things stored away in the big wardrobes on the ancient chests, for Aunt March ordered like a magpie. Amy's chief delight was an Indian cabinet, full of queer drawers, little pigeonholes, and secret places, in which were kept all sorts of ornaments, some precious, some merely curious, all more or less antique. To examine and arrange these things gave Amy great satisfaction, especially the jewel cases, in which on velvet cushions reposed the ornaments which had adorned a bell forty years ago. There was the garnet set which Aunt March wore when she came out. The pearls her father had given her on her wedding day. Her lover's diamonds. The jet mourning rings and pins. The queer lockets with portraits of dead friends and weeping willows made of hair inside. The baby bracelets her one little daughter had worn. Uncle March's big watch with the red seal so many childish hands had played with. And in a box all by itself, lay Aunt March's wedding ring. Too small now for her fat finger, but put carefully away like the most precious jewel of them all. Which would Mammo's Aunt choose if she had her will? asked Esther, who always sat near to watch over and lock up the valuables. I like the diamonds best, but there is no necklace among them, and I'm fond of necklaces. They are so becoming. I should choose this if I might, replied Amy, looking with great admiration at a string of gold and ebony beads from which hung a heavy cross of the same. I too covet that, but not as a necklace. Oh no, to me it is a rosary, and as such I should like to use it like a good Catholic, said Esther, eyeing the handsome thing wistfully. Is it meant to use as you use the string of good smelling wooden beads, hanging over your glass? asked Amy. Truly, yes, to pray with. It would be pleasing to the saints if one used so fine a rosary as this, instead of wearing it as a vain bejew. You seem to take a great deal of comfort in your prayers Esther, and always come down looking quiet and satisfied. I wish I could. If Mambosa was a Catholic, she would find true comfort. But is that not to be? It would be well, if you went apart each day to meditate and pray, as did the good mistress whom I served before Madame. She had a little chapel, and in it, van Salismans, for much trouble. Would it be right for me to do so too? asked Amy, who in her loneliness felt the need of help of some sort, and found that she was apt to forget her little book, now that Beth was not there to remind her of it. It would be excellent and charming. And I shall gladly arrange the little dressing room for you, if you like it. Say nothing to Madame, but when she sleeps, go you, and sit alone a little while, to think good thoughts, and pray the dear God preserve your sister. Esther was truly pious, and quite sincere in her advice, for she had an affectionate heart. It felt much for the sisters in their anxiety. Amy liked the idea, and gave her leave to arrange the little closet next to her room, hoping it would do her good. I wish I knew where all these pretty things would go when Aunt March dies, she said, as she slowly replaced the shining rosary, and shut the jewel cases one by one. Do you, and your sisters, I know it, Madame confides in me. I witness your will, and it is to be so, whispered Esther, smiling. How nice! But I wish she'd let us have them now. Procrastination is not agreeable, observed Amy, taking a last look at the diamonds. It is too soon for the young ladies to wear these things. The first one, who is a fiance, will have the pearls. Madame has said it, and I have a fancy that the little turquoise ring will be given to you when you go, for Madame approves your good behaviour and charming manners. Do you think so? Oh, I'll be a lamb if I can only have that lovely ring, when it's ever so much prettier than Kitty Bryant's. I do like Aunt March after all. And Amy tried on the blue ring with the delighted face, and affirm resolved to earn it. From that day she was a model of obedience, and the old lady complacently admired the success of her training. Esther fitted up the closet with a little table, placed a footstool before it, and overt a picture taken from one of the shut-up rooms. She thought it was of no great value, but, being appropriate, she borrowed it, well knowing that Madame would never know it, nor care if she did. It was, however, a very valuable copy of one of the most famous pictures of the world, and Amy's beauty-loving eyes were never tired of looking up at the sweet face of the Divine Mother, while her tender thoughts of her own were busy at her heart. On the table she laid her little testament and hymn-book, kept a vase always full of the best flowers Lori brought her, and came, every day, to sit alone, thinking good thoughts, and praying the dear God to preserve her sister. Esther had given her a rosary of black beads and a silver cross, but Amy hung it up and did not use it, feeling doubtful as to its fitness for Protestant prayers. The little girl was very sincere in all this, for being left alone outside the safe home nest, she felt the need of some kind hand to hold by so sorely that she instinctively turned to the strong and tender father, whose fatherly love most closely surrounds his little children. She missed her mother's help to understand and rule herself, but having been taught where to look, she did her best to find the way and walk in it, confidingly. But Amy was a young pilgrim, and just now her burden seemed very heavy. She tried to forget herself to keep cheerful and be satisfied with doing right, though no one saw or praised her for it. In her first effort at being very, very good, she decided to make her will, as Aunt March had done, so that if she did fall ill and die, her possessions might be justly and generously divided. It cost her a paying even to think of giving up the little treasures, which in her eyes were as precious as the old ladies jewels. During one of her play hours she wrote out the important document as well as she could, with some help from Esther, as to certain legal terms, and when the good-natured French woman had signed her name, Amy felt relieved, and laid it by to show Lori, whom she wanted as a second witness. As it was a rainy day, she went upstairs to amuse herself in one of the large chambers, and took Polly with her for company. In this room there was a wardrobe, full of old-fashioned costumes with which Esther allowed her to play, and it was her favorite amusement to array herself in the faded brookies, and parade up and down before the long mirror, making stately curtsies and sweeping her train about with a rustle which delighted her ears. So busy was she on this day that she did not hear Lori's ring, nor see his face peeping in at her as she gravely promenaded to and fro, flirting her fan and tossing her head on which she wore a great pink turban, contrasting oddly with her blue brocade dress and yellow quilted petticoat. She was obliged to walk carefully, for she had on high-heeled sandals, and, as Lori told Joe afterward, it was a comical sight to see her mince along in her gay suit, with Polly sidling and bridling just behind her, imitating her as well as he could, and occasionally stopping to laugh or exclaim, ain't we fine, get along you fright, hold your tongue, kiss me dear, ha ha! Having with difficulty restrained an explosion of merriment, lest it should offend her majesty, Lori tapped and was graciously received. Sit down and rest. Why put these things away? Then I want to consult you about a very serious matter, said Amy, when she had shown her splendor and driven Polly into a corner. That bird is the trial of my life, she continued, removing the pink mountain from her head, while Lori seated of himself a stride of chair. Yesterday, when Aunt was asleep, and I was trying to be as still as a mouse, Polly began to squall and flap about in his cage, so I went to let him out, and found a big spider there. I poked it out, and it ran under a bookcase. Polly marched straight after it, stooped down and peeped under the bookcase, saying in his funny way with a cock of his eye, come out and take a walk, my dear. I couldn't help laughing, which made Polly swear, and Aunt woke up and scolded us both. Did the spider accept the old fellow's invitation? asked Lori, yawning. Yes, out he came, in a way around Polly, frightened at death, and scrambled up on Aunt's chair, calling out, Catch her, catch her, catch her, as I chased the spider. That's a lie, oh, Lori, cried the parrot, pecking at Lori's toes. I had written your neck of your mind, you old torment, cried Lori, shaking his fist at the bird, who put his head on one side and gravely croaked. How do you do, your usher buttons, dear? Now I'm ready, said Amy, shutting the wardrobe and taking a piece of paper out of her pocket. I want you to read that, please, and tell me if it is legal and right. I felt I ought to do it, for life is uncertain, and I don't want any ill-feeling over my tomb. Lori bit his lips, and, turning a little from the pensive speaker, read the following document, with praise worth of gravity, considering the spelling. My last will and testament. I, Amy Curtis March, being in my sane mind, do give and bequeath all my earthly property, this do it, namely, to my father my best pictures, sketches, maps, and works of art, including frames, also my $100 to do what he likes with, to my mother all my clothes, except the blue apron with pockets, also my likeness, and my metal, with much love, to my dear sister Margaret, I give my turquoise ring, if I get it, also my green box with the doves on it, also my piece of real lace for her neck, and my sketch of her, as memorial of her little girl. To Joe, I leave my breast pin, the one mended with sealing wax, also my bronze ink stand, she lost the cover, and my most precious pasta rabbit, because I am sorry I burned up her story, to Beth, if she lives after me. I give my dolls, and the little bureau, my fan, my linen collars, and my new slippers, if she can wear them, being thin when she gets well, and I herewith also leave her my regret, that I ever made fun of old Joanna. To my friend and neighbor Theodore Lawrence, I bequeath thee my paper mache portfolio, my clay model of a horse, though he did say it hadn't any neck, also in return for his great kindness in the hour of affliction, any one of my artistic works he likes, Notre Dame is the best. To our venerable benefactor, Mr. Lawrence, I leave my purple box with a looking glass in the cover, wish will be nice for his pens, and remind him of the departed girl who thanks him for his favors to her family, especially Beth. I wish my favorite playmate Kitty Bryant to have a blue silk apron, and my gold bead ring with a kiss. To Hannah, I give the band box she wanted, and all the patchwork I leave, hoping she will remember me when it you see. And now, having disposed of my most valuable property, I hope all will be satisfied, and not blame the dead. I forgive everyone, and trust we may all meet when the trumpet shall sound. Amen. To this will and testament I set my hand and seal on this 20th day of November, Annie Domino, 1861, Amy Curtis March, Witness Estelle Valnor, Theodore Lawrence. The last name was written in pencil, and Amy explained that he was to rewrite it in ink and seal it up for her properly. What put it into your head? Did anyone tell you about Beth's giving away her things? Asked Lori soberly, as Amy laid a bit of red tape with sealing wax, a taper, and a standish before him. She explained it then asked anxiously, what about Beth? I'm sorry I spoke, but as I did I'll tell you. She felt so ill one day that she told Joe she wanted to give her piano to Meg, her cats to you, and that poor old doll to Joe, who would love it for her sake. She was sorry she had so little to give, and left locks of hair to the rest of us, and her best loved grandpa. She never thought of a will. Lori was signing and sealing as he spoke, and did not look up till a great tear dropped on the paper. Amy's face was full of trouble, but she only said, don't people put sort of post scripts to their will sometimes? Yes, caudasils they call them. Put one in mine then, that I wish all my curls cut off, and given to round my friends. I forgot it, but I want it done, though it will spoil my looks. Lori outed it, smiling at Amy's last and greatest sacrifice. Then he amused her for an hour, and was much interested in all her trials. But when he came to go, Amy held him back to whisper with trembling lips. He said really any danger about Beth? I'm afraid there is, but we must hope for the best. So don't cry, dear. And Lori put his arm about her with a brotherly gesture, which was very comforting. When he had gone, she went to her little chapel, and sitting in the twilight, prayed for Beth, with streaming tears and an aching heart, feeling that a million turquoise rings would not console her for the loss of her gentle little sister. End of chapter 19