 CHAPTER 30 CONSEQUENCES Mrs. Chester's fair was so very elegant and select that it was considered a great honour by the young ladies of the neighbourhood to be invited to take a table, and everyone was much interested in the matter. Amy was asked, but Joe was not, which was fortunate for all parties, as her elbows were decidedly a Kimbo at this period of her life, and it took a good many hard knocks to teach her how to get on easily. The, haughty, uninteresting creature was let severely alone, but Amy's talent and taste were duly complemented by the offer of the art table, and she exerted herself to prepare and secure appropriate and valuable contributions to it. Everything went on smoothly till the day before the fair opened. Then there occurred one of the little skirmishes which it is almost impossible to avoid when some five and twenty women, old and young, with all their private peaks and prejudices, tried to work together. May Chester was rather jealous of Amy because the latter was a greater favourite than herself, and just at this time several trifling circumstances occurred to increase the feeling. Amy's dainty pen and inkwork entirely eclipsed May's painted vases. That was one thorn. Then the all-conquering two-door had danced four times with Amy at a late party, and only once with May. That was thorn number two. But the chief grievance that rankled in her soul and gave an excuse for her unfriendly conduct was a rumour which some obliging gossip had whispered to her, that the March girls had made fun of her at the lambs. All the blame of this should have fallen upon Joe, for her naughty imitation had been too lifelike to escape detection, and the frolicsome lambs had permitted the joke to escape. No hint of this had reached the culprits, however, and Amy's dismay can be imagined when, the very evening before the fair, as she was putting the last touches to her pretty table, Mrs. Chester, who, of course, resented the supposed ridicule of her daughter, said in a bland tone but with a cold look, I find, dear, that there is some feeling among the young ladies about my giving this table to any one but my girls, as this is the most prominent and some say the most attractive table of all, and they are the chief getters up of the fair. It is thought best for them to take this place. I'm sorry, but I know you are too sincerely interested in the cause to mind a little personal disappointment, and you shall have another table if you like. Mrs. Chester fancied beforehand that it would be easy to deliver this little speech, but when the time came she found it rather difficult to utter it naturally, with Amy's unsuspicious eyes looking straight at her, full of surprise and trouble. Amy felt that there was something behind this but could not guess what, and said quietly, feeling hurt, and showing that she did. Perhaps you had rather I took no table at all. Now my dear, don't have any ill feeling I beg. It's merely a matter of expediency, you see. My girls will naturally take the lead, and this table is considered their proper place. I think it very appropriate to you, and feel very grateful for your efforts to make it so pretty, but we must give up our private wishes, of course, and I will see that you have a good place elsewhere. Wouldn't you like the flower table? The little girls undertook it, but they are discouraged. You could make a charming thing of it, and the flower table is always attractive, you know. Especially to gentlemen, added May, with a look which enlightened Amy as to one cause of her sudden fall from favour. She coloured angrily, but took no other notice of that girlish sarcasm, and answered with unexpected Amy-ability. It shall be as you please, Mrs. Chester. I'll give up my place here at once, and attend to the flowers if you like. You can put your own things on your own table if you prefer, began May, feeling a little conscience-stricken, as she looked at the pretty racks, the painted shells, and quaint illuminations Amy had so carefully made and so gracefully arranged. She meant it kindly, but Amy mistook her meaning and said quickly, Oh, certainly if they are in your way. And sweeping her contributions into her apron, Pell-Mell, she walked off, feeling that herself and her works of art had been insulted past forgiveness. Now she's mad. Oh, dear! I wish I hadn't asked you to speak, Mama, said May, looking disconsolately at the empty spaces on her table. Girls' quarrels are soon over, returned her mother, feeling a trifle ashamed of her own part in this one, as well she might. The little girls hailed Amy and her treasures with delight, which cordial reception somewhat soothed her perturbed spirit, and she fell to work, determined to succeed florally if she could not artistically. But everything seemed against her. It was late, and she was tired. Everyone was too busy with their own affairs to help her, and the little girls were only hindrances, for the deers fussed and chattered like so many magpies, making a great deal of confusion in their artless efforts to preserve the most perfect order. The evergreen arch wouldn't stay firm after she got it up, but wiggled and threatened to tumble down on her head when the hanging baskets were filled. Her best tile got a splash of water which left a sepia tear on the cupid's cheek. She bruised her hands with hammering, and got cold working in a draft, which last affliction filled her with apprehensions for the morrow. Any girl reader who has suffered like afflictions was sympathized with poor Amy and wished her well through her task. There was great indignation at home when she told her story that evening. Her mother said it was a shame, but told her she had done right. Beth declared she wouldn't go to the fair at all, and Joe demanded why she didn't take all her pretty things and leave those mean people to get on without her. Because they are mean is no reason why I should be. I hate such things, and though I think I've a right to be hurt, I don't intend to show it. They will feel that more than angry speeches or huffy actions, won't they mar me? That's the right spirit, my dear. A kiss for a blow is always best, though it's not very easy to give it sometimes, said her mother, with the air of one who had learned the difference between preaching and practicing. In spite of various, very natural temptations to resent and retaliate, Amy adhered to her resolution all the next day, bent on conquering her enemy by kindness. She began well, thanks to a silent reminder that came to her unexpectedly, but most opportunely. As she arranged her table that morning, while the little girls were in the anti-room filling the baskets, she took up her pet production, a little book, the antique cover of which her father had found among his treasures, and in which, on leaves of vellum, she had beautifully illuminated different texts. As she turned the pages rich in dainty devices, with very pardonable pride, her eye fell upon one verse that made her stop and think. Framed in a brilliant scrollwork of scarlet, blue, and gold, with little spirits of good will helping one another up and down among the thorns and flowers were the words, Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself. I ought, but I don't, thought Amy, as her eye went from the bright page to May's discontented face behind the big vases that could not hide the vacancies her pretty work had once filled. Amy stood a minute, turning the leaves in her hand, reading on each some sweet rebuke for all heart-burnings and uncharitableness of spirit. Many wise and true sermons are preached us every day by unconscious ministers in street, school, office, or home. Even a fair table may become a pulpit if it can offer the good and helpful words which are never out of season. Amy's conscience preached her a little sermon from that text, then and there, and she did what many of us do not always do, took the sermon to heart, and straightway put it into practice. A group of girls were standing about May's table admiring the pretty things and talking over the change of saleswomen. They dropped their voices, but Amy knew they were speaking of her, hearing one side of the story and judging accordingly. It was not pleasant, but a better spirit had come over her and presently a chance offered for proving it. She heard May say sorrowfully, It's too bad, for there is no time to make other things, and I don't want to fill up with odds and ends. The table was just complete, then. Now it's spoiled. I dare say she'd put them back if you asked her, suggested someone. How could I, after all the fuss, began May, but she did not finish, for Amy's voice came across the hall, saying pleasantly, You may have them and welcome, without asking, if you want them. I was just thinking I'd offered to put them back, for they belong to your table rather than mine. Here they are, please take them, and forgive me if I was hasty in carrying them away last night. As she spoke, Amy returned her contribution with a nod and a smile, and hurried away again, feeling that it was easier to do a friendly thing than it was to stay and be thanked for it. Now I call that lovely of her, don't you, cried one girl. May's answer was inaudible, but another young lady, whose temper was evidently a little soured by making lemonade, added, with a disagreeable laugh, very lovely, for she knew she wouldn't sell them at her own table. Now that was hard. When we make little sacrifices we like to have them appreciated at least, and for a minute Amy was sorry she had done it, feeling that virtue was not always its own reward. But it is, as she presently discovered, for her spirits began to rise, and her table to blossom under her skillful hands. The girls were very kind, and that one little act seemed to have cleared the atmosphere amazingly. It was a very long day and a hard one for Amy, as she sat behind her table, often quite alone, for the little girls deserted very soon. Few cared to buy flowers in summer, and her bouquets began to droop long before night. The art table was the most attractive in the room. There was a crowd about it all day long, and the tenders were constantly flying to and fro with important faces and rattling money-boxes. Amy often looked wistfully across, longing to be there, where she felt at home and happy, instead of in a corner with nothing to do. It might seem no hardship to some of us, but to a pretty, blithe young girl it was not only tedious but very trying, and the thought of Laurie and his friends made it a real martyrdom. She did not go home till night, and then she looked so pale and quiet that they knew the day had been a hard one, though she made no complaint, and did not even tell what she had done. Her mother gave her an extra cordial cup of tea. Beth helped her dress and made a charming little wreath for her hair. While Joe astonished her family by getting herself up with unusual care and hinting darkly that the tables were about to be turned. Don't do anything rude, pray, Joe. I won't have any fuss made, so let it all pass and behave yourself, begged Amy, as she departed early, hoping to find a reinforcement of flowers to refresh her poor little table. I merely intend to make myself entrancingly agreeable to everyone I know, and to keep them in your corner as long as possible. Teddy and his boys will lend a hand, and we'll have a good time yet, return Joe, leaning over the gate to watch for Lori. Presently the familiar tramp was heard in the dusk, and she ran out to meet him. Is that my boy? As sure as this is my girl. And Lori tucked her hand under his arm with the air of a man whose every wish was gratified. Oh, Teddy, such do-ings! and Joe told Amy's wrongs with sisterly zeal. A flock of our fellows are going to drive over by and by, and I'll be hanged if I don't make them by every flower she's got, and camp down before her table afterward, said Lori, espousing her cause with warmth. The flowers are not at all nice, Amy says, and the fresh ones may not arrive in time. I don't wish to be unjust or suspicious, but I shouldn't wonder if they never came at all. When people do one mean thing they are very likely to do another, observe Joe in a disgusted tone. Didn't Hayes give you the best out of our gardens? I told him to. I didn't know that, he forgot, I suppose, and as your grandpa was poorly, I didn't like to worry him by asking, though I did want some. Now, Joe, how could you think there was any need of asking? They are just as much yours as mine. Don't we always go haves and everything, began Lori, in the tone that always made Joe turn thorny. Gracious, I hope not. Half of some of your things wouldn't suit me at all. But we mustn't stand philandering here. I've got to help Amy, so you go and make yourself splendid, and if you'll be so very kind as to let Hayes take a few nice flowers up to the hall I'll bless you forever. Couldn't you do it now, asked Lori, so suggestively that Joe shut the gate in his face with inhospitable haste, and called through the bars, Go away, Teddy, I'm busy. Thanks to the conspirators the tables were turned that night, for Hayes sent up a wilderness of flowers with a loverly basket arranged in his best manner for a centerpiece. Then the March family turned out en masse, and Joe exerted herself to some purpose, for people not only came, but stayed, laughing at her nonsense, admiring Amy's taste, and apparently enjoying themselves very much. Lori and his friends gallantly threw themselves into the breach, bought up the bouquets, encamped before the table, and made that corner the liveliest spot in the room. Amy was in her element now, and out of gratitude, if nothing more, was as sprightly and gracious as possible, coming to the conclusion, about that time, that virtue was its own reward, after all. Joe behaved herself with exemplary propriety, and when Amy was happily surrounded by her guard of honor, Joe circulated about the hall, picking up various bits of gossip which enlightened her upon the subject of the Chester change of base. She reproached herself for her share of the ill feeling, and resolved to exonerate Amy as soon as possible. She also discovered what Amy had done about the things in the morning, and considered her a model of magnanimity. As she passed the art-table she glanced over it for her sister's things, but saw no sign of them. Tucked away out of sight, I dare say, thought Joe, who could forgive her own wrongs, but hotly resented any insult offered her family. Good evening, Miss Joe, how does Amy get on, asked May, with a conciliatory error, for she wanted to show that she also could be generous. She has sold everything she had that was worth selling, and now she is enjoying herself. The flower-table is always attractive, you know, especially to gentlemen. Joe couldn't resist giving that little slap, but May took it so meekly she regretted it a minute after, and fell to praising the great vases which still remained unsold. Is Amy's illumination anywhere about? I took a fancy to buy that for Father, said Joe, very anxious to learn the fate of her sister's work. Everything of Amy's sold long go. I took care that the right people saw them, and they made a nice little sum of money for us, returned May, who had overcome sundry small temptations as well as Amy had that day. Much gratified Joe rushed back to tell the good news, and Amy looked both touched and surprised by the report of May's word and manner. Now, gentlemen, I want you to go and do your duty by the other tables as generously as you have by mine, especially the art table, she said, ordering out Teddy's own, as the girls called the college friends. Charge, Chester, charge is the motto for that table, but do your duty like men, and you'll get your money's worth of art in every sense of the word, said the irrepressible Joe, as the devoted phalanx prepared to take the field. To hear is to obey, but march is far far than May, said little Parker, making a frantic effort to be both witty and tender, and getting promptly quenched by Laurie, who said, Very well, my son, for a small boy, and walked him off with a paternal pat on the head. By the vases, whispered Amy to Laurie, as the final heaping of coals of fire on her enemy's head. To May's great delight Mr. Lawrence not only bought the vases, but pervaded the hall with one under each arm. The other gentlemen speculated with equal rashness in all sorts of frail trifles, and wandered helplessly about afterward, burdened with wax flowers, painted fans, filigree portfolios, and other useful and appropriate purchases. Aunt Carol was there, heard the story, looked pleased, and said something to Mrs. March in a corner, which made the latter lady beamed with satisfaction, and watched Amy with a face full of mingled pride and anxiety, though she did not betray the cause of her pleasure till several days later. The fair was pronounced a success, and when May bade Amy good night, she did not gush as usual, but gave her an affectionate kiss, and a look which said, Forgive and forget. That satisfied Amy, and when she got home she found the vases paraded on the parlor chimney-piece with a great bouquet in each. The reward of merit for a magnanimous march, as Laurie announced with the flourish. You've a deal more principle and generosity and nobleness of character than I ever gave you credit for, Amy. You've behaved sweetly, and I respect you with all my heart, said Joe warmly, as they brushed their hair together late that night. Yes, we all do, and love her for being so ready to forgive. It must have been dreadfully hard, after working so long and setting your heart on selling your own pretty things. I don't believe I could have done it as kindly as you did, added Beth from her pillow. Why, girls, you needn't praise me so. I only did as I'd be done by. You laugh at me when I say I want to be a lady, but I mean a true gentlewoman in mind and manners, and I try to do it as far as I know how. I can't explain exactly, but I want to be above the little meannesses and follies and faults that spoil so many women. I'm far from it now, but I do my best, and hope in time to be what mother is. Amy spoke earnestly, and Joe said, with a cordial hug. I understand now what you mean, and I'll never laugh at you again. You are getting on faster than you think, and I'll take lessons of you in true politeness, for you've learned the secret, I believe. Try away, dearie, you'll get your reward some day, and no one will be more delighted than I shall. A week later Amy did get her reward, and poor Joe found it hard to be delighted. A letter came from Aunt Carol, and Mrs. Marche's face was illuminated to such a degree when she read it that Joe and Beth, who were with her, demanded what the glad tidings were. Aunt Carol is going abroad next month, and wants me to go with her, burst in Joe, flying out of her chair in an uncontrollable rapture. No, dear, not you. It's Amy. Oh, mother, she's too young. It's my turn first. I've wanted it so long. It would do me so much good and be so altogether splendid. I must go. I'm afraid it's impossible, Joe. Aunt says Amy, decidedly, and it is not for us to dictate when she offers such a favour. It's always so. Amy has all the fun, and I have all the work. It isn't fair. Oh, it isn't fair, cried Joe, passionately. I'm afraid it's partly your own fault, dear. When Aunt spoke to me the other day, she regretted your blunt manners and too independent spirit, and here she writes, as if quoting something you had said, I planned at first to ask Joe, but as favours burden her, and she hates French, I think I won't venture to invite her. Amy is more docile, will make a good companion for Flo, and receive gratefully any help the trip may give her. Oh, my tongue, my abominable tongue, why can't I learn to keep it quiet, grown Joe, remembering words which had been her undoing. When she had heard the explanation of the quoted phrases, Mrs. March said sorrowfully, I wish you could have gone, but there is no hope of it this time, so try to bear it cheerfully, and don't sadden Amy's pleasure by reproaches or regrets. I'll try, said Joe, winking hard as she knelt down to pick up the basket she had joyfully upset. I'll take a leaf out of her book, and try not only to seem glad, but to be so, and not grudge her one minute of happiness. But it won't be easy, for it is a dreadful disappointment. And poor Joe bedewed the little fat pin-cushion she held with several very bitter tears. Joe, dear, I'm very selfish, but I couldn't spare you, and I'm glad you are not going quite yet, whispered Beth, embracing her, basket and all, with such a clinging touch and loving face that Joe felt comforted in spite of the sharp regret that made her want to box her own ears, and humbly beg Aunt Carol to burden her with this favour, and see how gratefully she would bear it. By the time Amy came in, Joe was able to take her part in the family jubilation. Not quite as heartily as usual, perhaps, but without repinings at Amy's good fortune. The young lady herself received the news as tidings of great joy, went about in a solemn sort of rapture, and began to sort her colours and pack her pencils that evening, leaving such trifles as clothes, money and passports to those less-absorbed envisions of art than herself. It isn't a mere pleasure trip to me, girls, she said impressively, as she scraped her best palette. It will decide my career, for if I have any genius I shall find it out in Rome, and will do something to prove it. Suppose you haven't, said Joe, sewing away with red eyes at the new collars which were to be handed over to Amy. Then I shall come home and teach drawing for my living, replied the aspirant for fame, with philosophic composure. But she made a rye face at the prospect, and scratched away at her palette as if bent on vigorous measures before she gave up her hopes. No, you won't. You hate hard work, and you'll marry some rich man, and come home to sit in the lap of luxury all your days, said Joe. Your predictions sometimes come to pass, but I don't believe that one will. I'm sure I wish it would, for if I can't be an artist myself I should like to be able to help those who are, said Amy, smiling, as if the part of Lady Bountiful would suit her better than that of a poor drawing-teacher. Hump, said Joe, with a sigh, if you wish it you'll have it, for your wishes are always granted, mine never. Would you like to go, asked Amy, thoughtfully patting her nose with her knife? Rather! Well, in a year or two I'll send for you, and we'll dig in the forum for relics and carry out all the plans we've made so many times. Thank you, I'll remind you of your promise when that joyful day comes, if it ever does, returned Joe, accepting the vague but magnificent offer as gratefully as she could. There was not much time for preparation, and the house was in a ferment till Amy was off. Joe bore up very well till the last flutter of blue ribbon vanished, when she retired to her refuge, the garret, and cried till she couldn't cry any more. Amy likewise bore up stoutly till the steamer sailed. Then, just as the gangway was about to be withdrawn, it suddenly came over her that a whole ocean was soon to roll between her and those who loved her best, and she clung to Lori, the last lingerer, saying with a sob, Oh, take care of them for me, and if anything should happen, I will, dear, I will, and if anything happens I'll come and come for you, whispered Lori, little dreaming that he would be called upon to keep his word. So Amy sailed away to find the old world which is always new and beautiful to young eyes, while her father and friend watched her from the shore, fervently hoping that none but gentle fortunes would befall the happy-hearted girl, who waved her hand to them till they could see nothing but the summer sunshine dazzling on the sea. End of CHAPTER XXXI 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 Dionne Jines, Salt Lake City, Utah. Little Women by Louisa May Alcott, CHAPTER XXXI. Our Foreign Correspondent. London. Dearest people, here I really sit at a front window of the Bath Hotel, Piccadilly. It's not a fashionable place, but Uncle stopped here years ago and won't go anywhere else. However, we don't mean to stay long, so it's no great matter. Oh, I can't begin to tell you how I enjoy it all. I never can, so I'll only give you bits out of my notebook, for I've done nothing but sketch and scribble since I started. I sent a line from Halifax when I felt pretty miserable, but after that I got on delightfully, seldom ill, on deck all day, with plenty of pleasant people to amuse me. Everyone was very kind to me, especially the officers. Don't laugh, Joe. Gentlemen really are very necessary aboard ship to hold on to or to wait upon one. And as they have nothing to do, it's a mercy to make them useful. Otherwise, they would smoke themselves to death, I'm afraid. Ant and flow were poorly all the way, and liked to be let alone, so when I had done what I could for them, I went and enjoyed myself. Such walks on deck, such sunsets, such splendid air and waves. It was almost as exciting as riding a fast horse when we went rushing on so grandly. I wish Beth could have come. It would have done her so much good. As for Joe, she would have gone up and sat on the main top jib, or whatever the high thing is called, made friends with the engineers and tutored on the captain speaking trumpet. She'd have been in such a state of rapture. It was all heavenly, but I was glad to see the Irish coast, and found it very lovely. So green and sunny, with brown cabins here and there, ruins on some of the hills, and gentlemen's country seats in the valleys, with deer feeding in the parks. It was early in the morning, but I didn't regret getting up to see it, for the bay was full of little boats, the shore so picturesque, and a rosy sky overhead. I never shall forget it. At Queenstown one of my new acquaintances left us, Mr. Lennox, and when I said something about the lakes of Kilarney, he sighed and sung with a look at me. Oh, have you air-heard of Kate Carney? She lives on the banks of Kilarney, from the glance of her eye, shun danger and fly, for fadles the glance of Kate Carney. Wasn't that nonsensical? We only stopped at Liverpool a few hours. It's a dirty, noisy place, and I was glad to leave it. Uncle rushed out and bought a pair of dog-skin gloves, some ugly thick shoes, and an umbrella, and got shaved a la mutton chop the first thing. Then he flattered himself that he looked like a true Britain, but the first time he had the mud cleaned off his shoes, the little boot-black knew that an American stood in them and said with a grin, There you are, sir. I've given him the latest Yankee shine. It amused Uncle immensely. Oh, I must tell you what that absurd Lennox did. He got his friend Ward, who came on with us, to order a bouquet for me, and the first thing I saw in my room was a lovely one with Robert Lennox's compliments on the card. Wasn't that fun, girls? I like travelling. I shall never get to London if I don't hurry. The trip was like riding through a long picture gallery full of lovely landscapes. The farmhouses were my delight with thatched roofs, ivy up to the eaves, latticed windows, and stout women with rosy children out the doors. The very cattle looked more tranquil than ours as they stood knee-deep in clover, and the hens had a contented cluck as if they never got nervous, like Yankee bitties. Such perfect colour I never saw. The grass so green, sky so blue, grain so yellow, wood so dark, I was in a rapture all the way. So was Flo, and we kept bouncing from one side to the other, trying to see everything while we were whisking along at the rate of sixty miles an hour. Ant was tired and went to sleep, but uncle read his guidebook and wouldn't be astonished at anything. This is the way we went on. Amy flying up. Oh, that must be Kenilworth, that grey place among the trees. Flo darting to my window. How sweet! We must go there some time, won't we, Papa? Uncle calmly admiring his boots. No, my dear, not unless you want beer. That's a brewery. A pause then Flo cried out, bless me, there's a gallows and a man going up. Where, where? shrieks Amy, staring out at two tall posts with a crossbeam and some dangling chains. A colliery, remarks uncle, with a twinkle of the eye. Here's a lovely flock of lambs all lying down, says Amy. See, Papa, aren't they pretty? added Flo sentimentally. Geese, young ladies, returns uncle, in a tone that keeps us quiet, till Flo settles down to enjoy the flirtations of Captain Cavendish, and I have the scenery all to myself. Of course it rained when we got to London, and there was nothing to be seen but fog and umbrellas. We rested and packed and shopped a little between the showers. Aunt Mary got me some new things, for I came off in such a hurry I wasn't half ready. A white hat and blue feather, a muslin dress to match, and the loveliest mantle you ever saw. Shopping in Regent Street is perfectly splendid. Things seem so cheap. Nice ribbons, only six pence a yard. I laid in a stock, but shall get my gloves in Paris. Doesn't that sound sort of elegant and rich? Flo and I, for the fun of it, ordered a handsome cab, while Aunt and Uncle were out, and went for a drive, though we learned afterwards that it wasn't the thing for young ladies to ride in them alone. It was so droll. For when we were shut in by the wooden apron, the man drove so fast that Flo was frightened and told me to stop him, but he was up outside behind somewhere and I couldn't get at him. He didn't hear me call, nor see me flap my parasol in front. And there we were, quite helpless, rattling away, and whirling around corners at a breakneck pace. At last, in my despair, I saw a little door in the roof, and on poking it open, a red eye appeared, and a berry voice said, Now then, Mum, I gave my order as soberly as I could, and slamming down the door with an aye-aye, Mum. The man made his horse walk as if going to a funeral. I poked again and said, a little faster, then off he went, helter-skelter as before, and we resigned ourselves to our fate. Today was fair, and we went to Hyde Park, close by, for we are more aristocratic than we look. The Duke of Devonshire lives near. I often see his footmen lounging at the back gate, and the Duke of Wellington's house is not far off. Such sights as I saw my dear. It was as good as punch, for there were fat dowagers rolling about in their red and yellow coaches, with gorgeous jamoses and silk stockings and velvet coats up behind, and powdered coachmen in front. Smart maids with the rosy as children I ever saw, handsome girls looking half asleep, dandies in queer English hats and lavender kids lounging about, and tall soldiers in short red jackets and muffin caps stuck on one side, looking so funny I longed to sketch them. Rotten row means route de Roy, or the king's way, but now it's more like a riding school than anything else. The horses are splendid, and the men, especially the grooms, ride well. But the women are stiff and bounce, which isn't according to our rules. I longed to show them a tearing American gallop, for they trotted solemnly up and down, in their scant habits and high hats, looking like the women in a toy Noah's Ark. Everyone rides, old men, stout ladies, little children, and the young folks do a deal of flirting here. I saw a pair exchange rose buds, for it's the thing to wear, one in the buttonhole, and I thought it rather a nice little idea. In the PM to Westminster Abbey, but don't expect me to describe it, that's impossible, so I'll only say it was sublime. This evening we are going to see Factor, which will be an appropriate end to the happiest day of my life. It's very late, but I can't let my letter go in the morning, without telling you what happened last evening. Who do you think came in, as we were at tea? Larry's English friends. Fred and Frank Von. I was so surprised, for I shouldn't have known them but for the cards. Both are tall fellows with whiskers, Fred hands them in the English style, and Frank much better, for he only limps slightly, and uses no crutches. They had heard from Larry where we were to be, and came to ask us to their house, but Uncle won't go, so we shall return the call and see them as we can. They went to the theatre with us, and we did have such a good time, for Frank devoted himself to the flow, and Fred and I talked over past, present, and future fun, as if we had known each other all our days. Tell Beth, Frank asked for her, and was sorry to hear of her ill health. Fred laughed when I spoke of Joe, and sent his respectful compliments to the big hat. Neither of them had forgotten Camp Lawrence, or the fun we had there. What ages ago it seems, doesn't it? And is tapping on the wall for the third time, so I must stop. I really feel like a dissipated London fine lady, riding here so late, with my room full of pretty things, and my head a jumble of parks, theatres, new gowns, and gallant creatures who say ah, and twirl their blonde mustaches with the true English lordliness. I long to see you all, and in spite of my nonsense am, as ever, your loving Amy. Paris, dear girls, in my last I told you about our London visit, how kind the vans were, and what pleasant parties they made for us. I enjoyed the trips to Hampton Court, and the Kensington Museum, more than anything else, for at Hampton I saw Raphael's cartoons, and at the museum, rooms full of pictures by Turner, Lawrence, Reynolds, Hogarth, and the other great creatures. The day in Richmond Park was charming, for we had a regular English picnic, and I had more splendid oaks and groups of deer than I could copy. Also heard a nightingale and saw larks go up. We did London to our hearts content, thanks to Fred and Frank, and we're sorry to go away, for though English people are slow to take you in, when they once make up their minds to do it, they cannot be outdone in hospitality, I think. The vans hoped to meet us in Rome next winter, and I shall be dreadfully disappointed if they don't, for Grace and I are great friends, and the boys very nice fellows, especially Fred. Well, we were hardly settled here, when he turned up again, saying he had come for a holiday, and was going to Switzerland. Aunt looked sober at first, but he was so cool about it, she couldn't say a word. And now we get on nicely, and are very glad he came, for he speaks French like a native, and I don't know what we should do without him. Uncle doesn't know ten words, and insists on talking English very loud, as if it would make people understand him. Aunt's pronunciation is old fashioned, and Flo and I, though we flattered ourselves that we knew a good deal, find we don't, and are very grateful to have Fred to do the parley viewing, as Uncle calls it. Such delightful times as we are having, sight seeing from morning till night, stopping for nice lunches in the gay cafes, and meeting with all sorts of droll adventures. Rainy days I spend in the Louvre, reveling in pictures. Joe would turn up her naughty nose at some of the finest, because she has no soul for art, but I have, and I'm cultivating eye and taste as fast as I can. She would like the relics of great people better, for I've seen her Napoleon's cocked hat and gray coat, his baby's cradle and his old toothbrush, also Marie and Twanette's little shoe, the ring of St. Denis, Charlemagne's sword, and many other interesting things. I'll talk for hours about them when I come, but I haven't time to write. The Palais Royale is a heavenly place so full of bijoux-terres and lovely things that I'm nearly distracted because I can't buy them. Fred wanted to get me some, but of course I didn't allow it. Then the Bois and Champ LSE are Très magnifique. I've seen the Imperial family several times, the Emperor and ugly hard-looking man, the Empress pale and pretty, but dressed in bad taste, I thought, purple dress, green hat, and yellow gloves. Little Knapp is a handsome boy who sits chatting to his tutor and kisses his hand to the people as he passes in his four-horse barouche with pastillions in red satin jackets and a mounted guard before and behind. We often walk in the Tuileries' gardens for they are lovely, though the antique Luxembourg gardens suit me better. Parra la Chase is very curious, for many of the tombs are like small rooms and, looking in, one sees a table with images or pictures of the dead and chairs for the mourners to sit in when they come to lament. That is so Frenchy. Our rooms are on the Rue des Ravoli, and sitting on the balcony we look up and down the long brilliant street. It is so pleasant that we spend our evenings talking there when too tired with our day's work to go out. Fred is very entertaining and is altogether the most agreeable young man I ever knew, except Laurie, whose manners are more charming. I wish Fred was dark, for I don't fancy light men. However, the Vons are very rich and come of an excellent family, so I won't find fault with their yellow hair, as my own is yellower. Next week we are off to Germany and Switzerland, and as we shall travel fast, I shall only be able to give you hasty letters. I keep my diary and try to remember correctly and describe clearly all that I see and admire, as Father advised. It is good practice for me, and with my sketchbook will give you a better idea of my tour than these scribbles. I do, I embrace you tenderly. Votre, Amy. Heidelberg. My dear mama, having a quiet hour before we leave for Bern, I'll try to tell you what has happened, for some of it is very important, as you will see. The sail up the Rhine was perfect, and I just sat and enjoyed it with all my might. Get Father's old guidebooks and read about it. I haven't words beautiful enough to describe it. At Koblence we had a lovely time for some students from Bonn, with whom Fred got acquainted on the boat, gave us a serenade. It was a moonlit night and about one o'clock, Flo and I were waked by the most delicious music under our windows. We flew up and hid behind the curtains, but Sly Peets showed us Fred and the students singing away down below. It was the most romantic thing I ever saw, the river, the bridge of boats, the great fortress opposite, moonlight everywhere, and music fit to melt a heart of stone. When they were done we threw down some flowers and saw them scramble for them, kiss their hands to the invisible ladies, and go laughing away to smoke and drink beer, I suppose. Next morning Fred showed me one of the crumpled flowers in his vest pocket and looked very sentimental. I laughed at him and said I didn't throw it, but Flo, which seemed to disgust him, for he tossed it out of the window and turned sensible again. I'm afraid I'm going to have trouble with that boy, it begins to look like it. The baths at Nassau were very gay, so was Baden Baden, where Fred lost some money and I scolded him. He needs someone to look after him when Frank is not with him. Kate said once she hoped he'd marry soon, and I quite agree with her that it would be well for him. Frankfurt was delightful. I saw Gertis House, Schiller statue, and Danaker's famous Ariadne. It was very lovely, but I should have enjoyed it more if I had known the story better. I didn't like to ask as everyone knew it or pretended they did. I wished Joe would tell me all about it. I ought to have read more, for I find I don't know anything, and it mortifies me. Now comes the serious part, for it happened here and Fred has just gone. He has been so kind and jolly that we all got quite fond of him. I never thought of anything but a travelling friendship till the serenade night. Since then I've begun to feel that the moonlight walks, balcony talks, and daily adventures were something more to him than fun. I haven't flirted, mother, truly, but remembered what you said to me and have done my very best. I can't help it if people like me. I don't try to make them, and it worries me if I don't care for them, though Joe says I haven't got any heart. Now I know mother will shake her head, and the girls say, oh, the mercenary little wretch, but I've made up my mind, and if Fred asks me, I shall accept him, though I'm not madly in love. I like him, and we get uncomfortably together. He is handsome, young, clever enough, and very rich, ever so much richer than the Lawrence's. I don't think his family would object, and I should be very happy, for they are all kind, well-bred, generous people, and they like me. Fred, as the eldest twin, will have the estate, I suppose, and such a splendid one it is. A city house in a fashionable street, not so showy as our big houses, but twice as comfortable and full of solid luxury, such as English people believe in. I like it, for it's genuine. I've seen the plate, the family jewels, the old servants, and pictures of the country place, with its park, great house, lovely grounds, and fine horses. Oh, it would be all I should ask, and I'd rather have it than any title, such as girls snap up so readily and find nothing behind. I may be mercenary, but I hate poverty, and don't mean to bear it a minute longer than I can help. One of us must marry well. Meg didn't, Joe won't, Beth can't yet, so I shall, and make everything okay all round. I wouldn't marry a man I hated or despised, you may be sure of that, and though Fred is not my model hero, he does very well, and in time I should get fond enough of him if he was very fond of me, and let me do just as I liked. So I've been turning the matter over in my mind the last week, for it was impossible to help seeing that Fred liked me. He said nothing, but little things showed it. He never goes with flow, always gets on my side of the carriage, table, or promenade, look sentimental when we are alone, and frowns at anyone else who ventures to speak to me. Yesterday at dinner, when an Austrian officer stared at us, and then said something to his friend, a rakish-looking baron, about, I wonder, Sean's bludgeon, Fred looked as fierce as a lion, and cut his meat so savagely it nearly flew off his plate. He isn't one of the cool stiff Englishmen, but is rather peppery, for he has scotch blood in him, as one might guess from his bonny blue eyes. Well, last evening we went up to the castle about sunset, at least all of us but Fred, who was to meet us there after going to the post restante for letters. We had a charming time poking about the ruins, the vaults where the monster ton is, and the beautiful gardens, made by the elector long ago for his English wife. I liked the great terrace best, for the view was divine, so while the rest went to see the rooms inside, I sat there trying to sketch the grey stone lions' head on the wall, with scarlet woodbind sprays hanging round it. I felt as if I'd got into a romance sitting there, watching the neck are rolling through the valley, listening to the music of the Austrian band below, and waiting for my lover, like a real storybook girl. I had a feeling that something was going to happen, and I was ready for it. I didn't feel blushy or quaky, but quite cool, and only a little excited. By and by I heard Fred's voice, and then he came hurrying through the great arch to find me. He looked so troubled that I forgot all about myself, and asked what the matter was. He said he just got a letter begging him to come home, for Frank was very ill, so he was going out once on the night train, and only had time to say goodbye. I was very sorry for him, and disappointed for myself, but only for a minute, because he said, as he shook hands, and said it in a way that I could not mistake, I shall soon come back. You won't forget me, Amy. I didn't promise, but I looked at him, and he seemed satisfied, and there was no time for anything but messages and goodbyes, for he was off in an hour, and we all miss him very much. I know he wanted to speak, but I think, from something he once hinted, that he had promised his father not to do anything of this sort yet a while, for he is a rash boy, and the old gentleman dreads a foreign daughter-in-law. We shall soon meet in Rome, and then, if I don't change my mind, I'll say, yes, thank you, when he says, will you please? Of course, this is all very private, but I wished you to know what was going on. Don't be anxious about me. Remember, I am your prudent, Amy, and be sure I will do nothing rashly. Send me as much advice as you like. I'll use it if I can. I wish I could see you for a good talk, Marmy. Love and trust me. Ever, your, Amy. End of Chapter thirty-one. Chapter thirty-two 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 Lindsay Anderson. Little Women by Louisa May Alcott. Chapter thirty-two Tender Troubles. Joe, I'm anxious about Beth. Why, Mother, she has seemed unusually well since the babies came. It's not her health that troubles me now, it's her spirits. I'm sure there is something on her mind, and I want you to discover what it is. What makes you think so, Mother? She sits alone a good deal, and doesn't talk to her father as much as she used. She found her crying over the babies the other day. When she sings, the songs are always sad ones. And now and then I see a look in her face that I don't understand. This isn't like Beth, and it worries me. Have you asked her about it? I have tried once or twice, but she either evaded my questions or looked so distressed that I stopped. I never forced my children's confidence, and I seldom have to wait for long. Mrs. March glanced at Joe as she spoke, but the face opposite seemed quite unconscious of any secret disquietude but Beth's. And after sewing thoughtfully for a minute, Joe said, I think she's growing up, and so begins to dream dreams and have hopes and fears and fidgets without knowing why or being able to explain them. Why, Mother, Beth's 18, but we don't realize it and treat her like a child, forgetting she's a woman. So she is, dear heart, how fast you do grow up. Return to her mother with a sigh and a smile. Can't be helped, Marmy, so you must resign yourself to all sorts of worries and let your birds hop out of the nest one by one. I promise never to hop very far if that's any comfort to you. It's a great comfort, Joe. I always feel strong when you are at home, now Meg is gone. Beth is too feeble and Amy too young to depend upon, but when the tug comes, you are always ready. Why, you know I don't mind hard jobs much, and there must always be one scrub in a family. Amy is splendid and fine works and I'm not, but I feel in my element when all the carpets are to be taken up or half the family fall sick at once. Amy is distinguishing herself abroad, but if anything is amiss at home, I'm your man. I leave Beth to your hands then, for she will open her tender little heart to her Joe sooner than anyone else. Be very kind, and don't let her think anyone watches or talks about her. If she only would get quite strong and cheerful again, I shouldn't have a wish in the world. Happy woman, I've got heaps. My dear, what are they? I'll settle Beth's troubles and then I'll tell you mine. They're not very wearing, so they'll keep. And Joe stitched away with a wise nod which set her mother's heart at rest about her for the present at least. While apparently absorbed in her own affairs, Joe watched Beth, and after many conflicting conjectures, finally settled upon one which seemed to explain the change in her. A slight incident gave Joe the clue to the mystery, she thought, and lively, fancy, loving heart did the rest. She was affecting to write busily one Saturday afternoon when she and Beth were alone together. Yet as she scribbled, she kept her eye on her sister, who seemed unusually quiet. Sitting at the window, Beth's work often dropped into her lap, and she leaned her head upon her hand in a dejected attitude, while her eyes rested on the dull, autumnal landscape. Suddenly, someone passed below, whistling like an operatic blackbird, and a voice called out, all serene, coming in tonight. Beth started, leaned forward, smiled and nodded, watched the passer by till his quick tramp died away, then said softly as if to herself, how strong and well and happy that dear boy looks. Hmm! said Joe, still intent upon her sister's face, for the bright color faded as quickly as it came, the smile vanished, and presently a tear lay shining on the window ledge. Beth whisked it off, and in her half averted face read a tender sorrow that made her own eyes fill. Fearing to betray herself, she slipped away, murmuring something about needing more paper. Mercy on me! Beth loves Lori! she said, sitting down in her own room, pale with the shock of the discovery which she believed she had just made. I never dreamed of such a thing. What will mother say? I wonder if her... There, Joe stopped and turned to Scarlet with a sudden thought. If he shouldn't love back again, how dreadful it would be! He must! I'll make him! And she shook her head threateningly at the picture of the mischievous looking boy laughing at her from the wall. Oh, dear, we are growing up with a vengeance. Here's Meg married and a mama, Amy flourishing away in Paris, and Beth in love. I'm the only one that has sense enough to keep out a mischief. Joe thought intently for a minute with her eyes fixed on the picture. Then she smoothed out her wrinkled forehead and said with a decided nod at the face opposite. No, thank you, sir. You're very charming, but you've no more stability than a weathercock. So you needn't write touching notes and smile in that insinuating way, for it won't do a bit of good and I won't have it. Then she sighed and fell into a reverie from which she did not wake till the early twilight hours sent her down to take new observations which only confirmed her suspicion. Though Lori flirted with Amy and joked with Joe, his manner to Beth had always been peculiarly kind and gentle, but so was everybody's. Therefore no one thought of imagining that he cared more for her than for the others. Indeed, a general impression had prevailed in the family of late that our boy was getting fonder than ever of Joe, who, however, wouldn't hear a word upon the subject and scolded violently if anyone dared to suggest it. If they had known that various tender passages which had been nipped in the bud, they would have had the immense satisfaction of saying, I told you so. But Joe hated flandering and wouldn't allow it, always having a joke or a smile ready at the least sign of impending danger. When Lori first went to college, he fell in love about once a month, but these small flames was brief as ardent, did no damage and much amused Joe, who took great interest in the alternations of hope, despair and resignation which were confided to her in their weekly conferences. But there came a time when Lori ceased to worship at many shrines, hinted darkly at one all-absorbing passion, and indulged occasionally in bironic fits of gloom. Then he avoided the tender subject altogether, wrote philosophical notes to Joe, turned studious, and gave out that he was going to dig, intending to graduate in a blaze of glory. This suited the young lady better than twilight confidences, tender pressures of the hand, and eloquent glances of the eye, for with Joe, brain developed earlier than heart, and she preferred imaginary heroes to real ones, because when tired of them, the former could be shut up in the tin kitchen till called for, and the latter were less manageable. Things were in this state when the grand discovery was made, and Joe watched Lori that night as she had never done before. If she had not got the new idea into her head, she would have seen nothing unusual in the fact that Beth was very quiet and Lori very kind to her. But having given the rain to her lively fancy, it galloped away with her at a great pace, and common sense, being rather weakened by a long course of romance writing, did not come to the rescue. As usual, Beth lay on the sofa, and Lori sat in a low chair close by, amusing her with all sorts of gossip, for she depended on her weakly spin, and he never disappointed her. But that evening, Joe fancied that Beth's eyes rested on the lively dark face beside her, with peculiar pleasure, and that she listened with intense interest to an account of some exciting cricket-natch, though the phrases caught off a tice, stumped off his ground, and the leg hit for three, or as intelligible to her as Sanskrit. She also fancied, having set her heart upon seeing it, that she saw a certain increase of gentleness in Lori's manner, that he dropped his voice now and then, laughed less than usual, was a little absent-minded, and settled the afghan over Beth's feet with an aciduity that was really almost tender. Who knows? Stranger things have happened, thought Joe as she fussed about the room. She will make quite an angel of him, and he will make life delightfully easy and pleasant for the dear if they only love each other. I don't see how he can help it, and I do believe he would if the rest of us were out of the way. As everyone was out of the way but herself, Joe began to feel that she ought to dispose of herself with all speed. But where should she go? And, burning to lay herself upon the shrine of sisterly devotion, she sat down to settle that point. Now, the old sofa was a regular patriarch of a sofa, long, broad, well-cushioned, and low, a trifle shabby, as it might be for the girls that slept and sprawled on in his babies, fished over the back, rode on the arms, and had menageries under his children, and rested tired heads, dreamed dreams, and listened to tender talk on it as young women. They all loved it, for it was a family refuge, and one corner had always been Joe's favorite lounging-place. Among the many pillows that adorned the venerable couch was one hard round, covered with prickly horse-hair, and furnished with a knobby button at each end. This repulsive pillow was her special property, being used as a weapon of defense, a barricade, or a stern preventative of too much slumber. Lori knew this pillow well, and had caused to regard it with deep aversion, having been unmercifully pummeled with it in former days when romping was allowed, and now frequently debarred by it from the seat he most coveted next Joe in the sofa corner. If the sausage, as they called it, stood on end, it was a sigh that he might approach and repose, but if it lay flat across the sofa, woe to man, woman, or child who dared disturb it. That evening Joe forgot to barricade her corner, and had not been in her seat five minutes before a massive form appeared beside her, and with both arms spread over the sofa back, both long legs stretched out before him, Lori exclaimed with a sigh of satisfaction, now this is filling at the price. No slang, snapped Joe, slamming down the pillow, but it was too late, for there was no room for it, and coasting onto the floor it disappeared in a most mysterious manner. Come, Joe, don't be thorny. After studying himself to a skeleton all the week, a fellow deserves petting and not to get it. Beth will pet you, I'm busy. Nah, she's not to be bothered with me, but you like that sort of thing, unless you've suddenly lost your taste for it. Have you? Do you hate your boy and want to fire pillows at him? Anything more riddlesome than that touching appeal was seldom heard. But Joe quenched her boy by turning on him with a stern query. How many bouquets have you sent Miss Randall this week? Not one upon my word. She's engaged, now that. I'm glad of it, that's one of your foolish extravagances, sending flowers and things to girls for whom you don't care two pins, continued Joe reprovingly. Sensible girls for whom I do care whole papers of pins won't let me send them flowers and things, so what can I do? My feelings need a vent. Mother doesn't approve of flirting even in fun, and you do flirt desperately, Teddy. I'd give anything if I could answer, so do you. As I can't, I'll merely say that I don't see any harm in that pleasant little game if all parties understand that it's only play. Well, it does look pleasant, but I can't learn how it's done. I've tried, because one feels awkward in company not to do as everybody else is doing, but I don't seem to get on, said Joe, forgetting to play mentor. Take lessons of Amy, she has a regular talent for it. Yes, she does it very pritally and never seems to go too far. I suppose it's natural to some people to please without trying, and others to always say and do the wrong thing in the wrong place. I'm glad you can't flirt. It's really refreshing to see a sensible, straightforward girl who can be jolly and kind without making a fool of herself. Between ourselves, Joe, some of the girls I know really do go on at such a rate I'm ashamed of them. They don't mean any harm, I'm sure, but if they knew how we fellows talked about them afterward, they'd mend their ways, I fancy. They do the same, and as their tongues are to the sharpest, you fellows get the worst of it. For you are as silly as they, every bit. If you behaved properly, they would, but knowing you like their nonsense, they keep it up, and then you blame them. Much you know about it, ma'am, said Lorraine, a superior tone. We don't like romps and flirts, though we may act as if we did sometimes. The pretty, modest girls are never talked about, except respectfully among gentlemen. Bless your innocent soul, if you could be in my place for a month, you'd see things that would astonish you with trifle. Upon my word, when I see one of those harem-scarrem girls, I always want to say with our friend Cock Robin, ouch upon you, fie upon you bold-faced jig. It was impossible to help laughing at the funny conflict between Lorraine's chivalrous reluctance to speak ill of womenkind, and his very natural dislike of the unfeminine folly of which fashionable society showed him many samples. Joe knew that young Lawrence was regarded as a most eligible party by worldly mamas, was much smiled upon by their daughters, and flattered enough by ladies of all ages to make a cox-comb of him, so she watched him rather jealously, fearing he would be spoiled, and rejoiced more than she confessed to find that he still believed in modest girls. Returning suddenly to her admonitory tone, she said dropping her voice, if you must have a vent, Teddy, go and devote yourself to one of the pretty modest girls whom you do respect, and not waste your time with the silly ones. You really advise it? And Lori looked at her with an odd mixture of anxiety and merriment in his face. Yes, I do, but you'd better wait till you were through college, on the whole, and be fitting yourself for the place meantime. You're not half good enough for, well, whoever the modest girl may be. And Joe looked a little queer likewise, for a name had almost escaped her. That I'm not, acquiesced Lori, with an expression of humility quite new to him, as he dropped his eyes and absently wound Joe's apron tassel round his finger. Mercy on us this will never do, thought Joe, adding aloud, go and sing to me, I'm dying for some music and always like yours. I'd rather stay here, thank you. Well, you can't, there isn't room. Go and make yourself useful, since you're too big to be ornamental. I thought you hated to be tied to a woman's apron string, retorted Joe, quoting certain rebellious words of his own. Ah, that depends on who wears the apron. And Lori gave an audacious tweak at the tassel. Are you going? demanded Joe, diving for the pillow. He fled at once, and the minute it was well, up with the bonnets of Bonnie Dundee, she slipped away to return no more till the young gentleman departed in high dudgeon. Joe lay long awake that night, and was just dropping off when the sound of a stifled sob made her fly to Beth's bedside with the anxious inquiry. What is it, dear? I thought you were asleep, sobbed Beth. Is it the old pain, my precious? No, it's a new one, but I can bear it. And Beth tried to check her tears. Tell me all about it, and let me cure it as I often did the other. You can't. There is no cure. Their Beth's voice gave way, and clinging to her sister, she cried so despairingly that Joe was frightened. Where is it? Shall I call mother? No, no. Don't call her. Don't tell her. I shall be better soon. Lie down here and pull her in my head. I'll be quiet and go to sleep, indeed I will. Joe obeyed, but as her hand went softly to and fro across Beth's hot forehead and wet eyelids, her heart was very full, and she longed to speak. But young as she was, Joe had learned that hearts, like flowers, cannot be rudely handled, but must open naturally. So though she believed she knew the cause of Beth's new pain, she only said in her tenderest tone, Does anything trouble you, dearie? Yes, Joe, after a long pause. Wouldn't it comfort you to tell me what it is? Not now. Not yet. Then I won't ask, but remember, Bethy, that mother and Joe are always glad to hear and help you if they can. I know it. I'll tell you by and by. Is the pain better now? Oh yes, much better. You're so comfortable, Joe. Go to sleep, dear. I'll stay with you. So cheek to cheek they fell asleep. And on the morrow Beth seemed quite herself again, for at eighteen neither heads nor hearts ached long, and a loving word can medicine most ills. But Joe had made up her mind, and after pondering over a project for some days, she confided it to her mother. You asked me the other day what my wishes were. I'll tell you one of them, Marmy. She began as they sat along together. I want to go away somewhere this winter for a change. Why, Joe? And her mother looked up quickly as if the word suggested a double meaning. With her eyes on her work, Joe answered soberly, I want something new. I feel restless and anxious to be seeing, doing, and learning more than I am. I brew too much over my own small affairs, and need stirring up, so as I can be spared this winter, I'd like to hop a little way and try my wings. Where will you hop? To New York. I had a bright idea yesterday, and this is it. You know Mrs. Kirk wrote to you for some respectable young person to teach her children and so. It's rather hard to find just the thing, but I think I should suit if I tried. My dear, go out to service in that great boarding house. And Mrs. March looked surprised, but not displeased. It's not exactly going out to service for Mrs. Kirk is your friend, the kindest soul that ever lived, and would make things pleasant for me, I know. Her family is separate from the rest, and no one knows me there. Don't care if they do, it's honest work, and I'm not ashamed of it. Nor I, but your writing. All the better for the change, I shall see and hear new things, get new ideas, and even if I haven't much time there, I shall bring home quantities of material for my rubbish. I have no doubt of it. But are these your only reasons for this sudden fancy? No, mother. May I know the others? Joe looked up, and Joe looked down, then said slowly with sudden color in her cheeks. It may be vain and wrong to say it, but I'm afraid Laurie is getting too fond of me. Then you don't care for him in the way it is evident he begins to care for you. And Mrs. March looked anxious as she put the question. Mercy, no. I love the dear boy as I always have, and I'm immensely proud of him, but as for anything more, it's out of the question. I'm glad of that, Joe. Why, please? Because, dear, I don't think you're suited to one another. As friends, you are very happy, and your frequent quarrels soon blow over, but I fear you would both rebel if you were made it for life. You are too much alike and too fond of freedom not to mention hot tempers and strong wills to get on happily together in a relation which needs infinite patience and forbearance, as well as love. That's just the feeling I had, though I couldn't express it. I'm glad you think he is only beginning to care for me. It would trouble me sadly to make him unhappy, for I couldn't fall in love with the dear old fellow merely out of gratitude, could I? You are sure of his feeling for you? The color deepened in Joe's cheeks as she answered, with the look of mingled pleasure, pride, and pain which young girls wear when speaking of first lovers. I'm afraid it is so, mother. He hasn't said anything, but he looks a great deal. I think I had better go away before it comes to anything. I agree with you, and if it can be managed, you shall go. Joe looked relieved, and after a pause, said smiling, how Mrs. Moffat would wonder at your want of management if she knew, and how she will rejoice that Annie may still hope. Ah, Joe, mothers may differ in their management, but the hope is the same in all, the desire to see their children happy. Meg is so, and I am content with her success. You, I leave to enjoy your liberty till you tire of it, for only then will you find that there is something sweeter. Amy is my chief care now, but her good sense will help her. For Beth, I indulge no hopes except that she may be well. By the way, she seems brighter this last day or two. Have you spoken to her? Yes, she owned she had a trouble, and promised to tell me by and by. I said no more, for I think I know it. And Joe told her little story. Mrs. March shook her head and did not take so romantic a view of the case, but looked grave and repeated her opinion that for Lori's sake, Joe should go away for a time. Let us say nothing about it to him till the plan is settled, and then I'll run away before he can collect his wits and be tragic. Beth must think I'm going to please myself as I am, for I can't talk about Lori to her. But she can pet and comfort him after I'm gone, and so cure him of this romantic notion. He's been through so many little trials of the sort, he's used to it, and will soon get over his love, Lornety. Joe spoke hopefully, but could not rid herself of the foreboding fear that this little trial would be harder than the others, and that Lori would not get over his love, Lornety, as easily as here to for. The plan was talked over in a family council and agreed upon, for Mrs. Kirk gladly accepted Joe and promised to make a pleasant home for her. The teaching would render her independent, and such leisure as she got might be made profitable by writing, while the new scenes in society would be both useful and agreeable. Joe liked the prospect and was eager to be gone, for the home nest was growing too narrow for her restless nature and adventurous spirit. When all was settled, with fear and trembling she told Lori, but to her surprise he took it very quietly. He had been graver than usual of late, but very pleasant, and when jokingly accused of turning over a new leaf he answered soberly, so I am, and I mean this one shall stay turned. Joe was very much relieved that one of his virtuous fit should come on just then, and made her preparations with a lightened heart, for Beth seemed more cheerful and hoped she was doing the best for all. One thing I leave in your special care, she said the night before she left. You mean your papers? asked Beth. No, my boy, be very good to him, won't you? Of course I will, but I can't fill your place, and he'll miss you sadly. It won't hurt him, so remember I leave him in your charge to plague, pet, and keep in order. I'll do my best for your sake, promised Beth, wondering why Joe looked at her so clearly. When Lori said goodbye, he whispered significantly, it won't do a bit of good, Joe. My eye is on you, so mind what you do, or I'll come and bring you home. End of Chapter 32 Chapter 33 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. Little Women by Louisa May Alcott Chapter 33 Joe's Journal New York, November Dear Marmy and Beth, I'm going to write you a regular volume, for I've got heaps to tell, though I'm not a fine young lady travelling on the Continent. When I lost sight of Father's dear old face, I felt a trifle blue, and might have shed a briny drop or two if an Irish lady with four small children, all crying more or less, hadn't diverted my mind, for I amused myself by dropping gingerbread nuts over the seat every time they opened their mouths to roar. Soon the sun came out, and taking it as a good omen, I cleared up likewise, and enjoyed my journey with all my heart. Mrs. Kirk welcomed me so kindly that I felt at home at once, even in that big house full of strangers. She gave me a funny little sky-parler, all she had, but there is a stove in it, and a nice table in a sunny window, so I can sit here and write whenever I like. A fine view, and a church-tower opposite, atone for the many stairs, and I took a fancy to my den on the spot. The nursery, where I am to teach and so, is a pleasant room next to Mrs. Kirk's private parlor, and the two little girls are pretty children. Rather spoiled, I fancy, but they took to me, after telling them the seven bad pigs, and I have no doubt I shall make a model governess. I am to have my meals with the children, if I prefer it to the great table, and for the present I do, for I am bashful, though no one will believe it. Now, my dear, make yourself at home, said Mrs. K. in her motherly way. I am on the drive, from morning to night, as you may suppose with such a family, but a great anxiety will be off my mind if I know the children are safe with you. My rooms are always open to you, and your own shall be as comfortable as I can make it. There are some pleasant people in the house, if you feel sociable, and your evenings are always free. Come to me if anything goes wrong, and be as happy as you can. There's the tea-bell, I must run and change my cap. And off she bustled, leaving me to settle myself in my new nest. As I went downstairs soon after, I saw something I liked. The flights are very long in this tall house, and as I stood waiting at the head of the third one, for a little servant girl to lumber up, I saw a gentleman come along behind her, take the heavy hod of coal out of her hand, carry it all the way up, put it down at a door nearby, and walk away saying, with a kind nod, and a foreign accent—it goes better so, the little back is too young to have such heaviness. Wasn't that good of him? I like such things, for, as Father says, trifles show character. When I mentioned it to Mrs. Kaye that evening, she laughed and said, That must have been Professor Bear, he's always doing things of that sort. Mrs. Kaye told me he was from Berlin, very learned and good, but poor as a church mouse, and gives lessons to support himself and two little orphan nephews whom he is educating here, according to the wishes of his sister, who married an American. Not a very romantic story, but it interested me, and I was glad to hear that Mrs. Kaye lends him her parlor for some of his scholars. There is a glass door between it and the nursery, and I mean to peep in at him, and then I'll tell you how he looks. He's almost forty, so it's no harm, Marmy. After tea and a go-to-bed romp with the little girls, I attacked the big work-basket, and had a quiet evening chatting with my new friend. I shall keep a journal letter, and send it once a week. So good night, and more to-morrow. Tuesday, Eve. Had a lively time in my seminary this morning, for the children acted like Sancho, and at one time I really thought I should shake them all round. Some good angel inspired me to try gymnastics, and I kept it up till they were glad to sit down and keep still. After luncheon the girl took them out for a walk, and I went to my needlework, like little Mabel with a willing mind. I was thanking my stars that I had learned how to make nice buttonholes when the parlor door opened in shot, and someone began to hum, kentst du das land, like a big bumblebee. It was dreadfully improper, I know, but I couldn't resist the temptation, and lifting one end of the curtain before the glass door I peeped in. Professor Bear was there, and while he arranged his books I took a good look at him. A regular German, rather stout, with brown hair tumbled all over his head, a bushy beard, good nose, the kindest eyes I ever saw, and a splendid big voice that does one's ears good, after our sharp and slip-shod American gabble. His clothes were rusty, his hands were large, and he hadn't a really handsome feature in his face except his beautiful teeth. Yet I liked him, for he had a fine head, his linen was very nice, and he looked like a gentleman, although two buttons were off his coat and there was a patch on one shoe. He looked sober in spite of his humming, till he went to the window to turn the hyacinth bulbs toward the sun, and stroked the cat, who received him like an old friend. Then he smiled, and when a tap came at the door he called out in a loud brisk tone, herein. I was just going to run when I caught sight of a morsel of a child carrying a big book, and stopped to see what was going on. Me wants me Bear, said the might, slamming down her book and running to meet him. Thou shalt half thy bear, come then and take a good hug from him, my Tina, said the professor, catching her up with a laugh, and holding her so high over his head that she had to stoop her little face to kiss him. Now me must study my lesson, went on the funny little thing. So he put her up at the table, opened the great dictionary she had brought, and gave her a paper and pencil, and she scribbled away, turning a leaf now and then, and passing her little fat finger down the page as if finding a word, so soberly, that I nearly betrayed myself by a laugh, while Mr. Bear stood stroking her pretty hair with a fatherly look that made me think she must be his own, though she looked more French than German. Another knock, and the appearance of two young ladies sent me back to my work, and there I virtuously remained through all the noise and gabbling that went on next door. One of the girls kept laughing effectively, and saying, Now, Professor, in a coquettish tone, and the other pronounced her German with an accent that must have made it hard for him to keep sober. Both seemed to try his patience sorely, for more than once I heard him say emphatically, No, no, it is not so, you have not attend to what I say. And once there was a loud rap as if he struck the table with his book, followed by the despairing exclamation, Prutt, it all goes bad this day. Poor man, I pitied him, and when the girls were gone I took one more peep to see if he survived it. He seemed to have thrown himself back in his chair, tired out, and sat there with his eyes shut till the clock struck two, when he jumped up, put his books in his pocket as if ready for another lesson, and taking little Tina, who had fallen asleep on the sofa, in his arms, he carried her away quietly. I fancy he has a hard life of it. Mrs. Kirk asked me if I wouldn't go down to the five o'clock dinner, and, feeling a little bit homesick, I thought I would, just to see what sort of people are under the same roof with me. So I made myself respectable, and tried to slip in behind Mrs. Kirk. But as she is short, and I'm tall, my efforts at concealment were rather a failure. She gave me a seat by her, and after my face cooled off I plucked up courage and looked about me. The long table was full, and everyone was intent on getting their dinner. The gentlemen especially, who seemed to be eating on time, for they bolted in every sense of the word, vanishing as soon as they were done. There was the usual assortment of young men absorbed in themselves, young couples absorbed in each other, married ladies in their babies, and old gentlemen in politics. I don't think I shall care to have much to do with any of them, except one sweet-faced maiden-lady who looks as if she had something in her. Cast away at the very bottom of the table was the Professor, shouting answers to the questions of a very inquisitive deaf old gentleman on one side, and talking philosophy with a Frenchman on the other. If Amy had been here she'd have turned her back on him forever, because, sad to relate, he had a great appetite, and shoveled in his dinner in a manner which would have horrified her ladyship. I didn't mind, for I like to see folks eat with a relish, as Hannah says, and the poor man must have needed a deal of food after teaching idiots all day. As I went upstairs after dinner two of the young men were settling their hats before the hall mirror, and I heard one say, low to the other, who's the new party? Governess, or something of that sort? What the deuce is she at our table for? Friend of the old ladies. Hmm, handsome head, but no style. Not a bit of it. Give us a light and come on. I felt angry at first, and then I didn't care, for a governess is as good as a clerk, and I've got sense, if I haven't got style, which is more than some people have, judging from the remarks of the elegant beings who clattered away smoking like bad chimneys. I hate ordinary people. Thursday. Yesterday was a quiet day, spent in teaching, sewing, and writing in my little room, which is very cosy, with a light and a fire. I picked up a few bits of news, and I was introduced to the Professor. It seems that Tina is the child of the French woman who does the fine ironing in the laundry here. The little thing has lost her heart to Mr. Bear, and follows him about the house, like a dog, whenever he is at home, which delights him, as he is very fond of children, though a bachelder. Kitty and Minnie Kirk likewise behold him with affection, and tell all sorts of stories about the plays he invents, the presents he brings, the splendid tales he tells. The younger men quiz him, it seems, call him Old Fritz, Lagerbeer, Ursa Major, and make all manner of jokes on his name. But he enjoys it like a boy, Mrs. Kirk says, and takes it so good-naturedly, that they all like him in spite of his foreign ways. The maiden-lady is a Miss Norton, rich, cultivated, and kind. She spoke to me at dinner to-day, for I went to the table again, it's such fun to watch people, and asked me to come and see her in her room. She has fine books and pictures, nose-interesting persons, and seems friendly, so I shall make myself agreeable, for I do want to get into good society, only it isn't the same sort that Amy likes. I was in our parlor last evening when Mr. Baer came in with some newspapers for Mrs. Kirk. She wasn't there, but Minnie, who is a little old woman, introduced me very prettily. This is Mama's friend, Miss March. Yes, and she's jolly, and we like her lots, added Kitty, who is an enfant terrible. We both bowed, and then we laughed, for the prim introduction and the blunt addition were rather a comical contrast. Ah, yes, I hear these naughty ones go to vex you, Miss March, if so again call at me, and I come, he said, with a threatening frown that delighted the little wretches. I promised I would, and he departed. But it seems as if I was doomed to see a good deal of him. For to-day I passed his door on my way out. By accident I knocked against it with my umbrella. It flew open, and there he stood in his dressing-gown, with a big blue sock in one hand and a darning needle in the other. He didn't seem at all ashamed of it, for when I explained and hurried on, he waved his hand, sock and all, saying in his loud, cheerful way, you have a fine day to make your walk, bon voyage, mademoiselle. I laughed all the way downstairs, but it was a little pathetic also to think of the poor man having to mend his own clothes. The German gentleman embroider, I know, but darning hose is another thing, and not so pretty. Saturday. Nothing has happened to write about, except a call on Miss Norton, who has a room full of pretty things and who was very charming, for she showed me all her treasures and asked me if I would sometimes go with her to lectures and concerts as her escort if I enjoyed them. She put it as a favour, but I'm sure Mrs. Kirk has told her about us, and she does it out of kindness to me. I'm as proud as Lucifer, but such favours from such people don't burden me, and I accepted gratefully. When I got back to the nursery there was such an uproar in the parlor that I looked in, and there was Mr. Bear down on his hands and knees, with Tina on his back, Kitty leading him with a jump-rope and Minnie feeding two small boys with seed-cakes, as they roared and ramped in cages built out of chairs. We are playing nagery, explained Kitty. This is my effulant, added Tina, holding on by the professor's hair. Mama always allows us to do what we like Saturday afternoon when friends and Emil come, doesn't she, Mr. Bear? said Minnie. The effulant sat up, looking as much in earnest as any of them, and said soberly to me, I give you my word, it is so. If we make too large a noise, you shall say hush to us, and we go more softly. I promised to do so, but I left the door open and enjoyed the fun as much as they did, for a more glorious frolic I've never witnessed. They played tag and soldiers and danced and sang, and when it began to grow dark they all piled on to the sofa about the professor, while he told charming fairy stories of the storks on the chimney tops and the little coblods who ride the snowflakes as they fall. I wish Americans were as simple and natural as Germans, don't you? I'm so fond of writing I could go spinning on forever, if motives of economy didn't stop me, for although I have used thin paper and written fine I tremble to think of the stamps this long letter will need. Pray forward, Amys, as soon as you can spare them. My small news will sound very flat after her splendours, but you will like it, I know. Is Teddy studying so hard that he can't find time to write to his friends? Take good care of him for me, Beth, and tell me all about the babies, and give heaps of love to every one. From your faithful Joe. P.S. On reading over my letter it strikes me as rather berry, but I am always interested in odd people, and I really had nothing else to write about. Bless you. December. My precious Betsy. As this is to be a scribble-scrabble letter, I shall direct it to you, for it may amuse you and give you some idea of my goings-on, for though quiet they are rather amusing, for which I'll be joyful. After what Amy would call herculaneum efforts in the way of mental and moral agriculture, my young ideas begin to shoot and my little twigs to bend as I would wish. They are not so interesting to me as Tina and the boys, but I do my duty by them, and they are fond of me. Frans and Emil are jolly little lads, quite after my own heart, for the mixture of German and American spirit in them produces a constant state of effervescence. Saturday afternoons are riotous times, whether spent in the house or out. For unpleasant days they all go to walk, like a seminary, with the professor and myself to keep order, and then such fun. We are very good friends now, and I've begun to take lessons. I really couldn't help it, and it all came about in such a droll way that I must tell you. To begin at the beginning, Mrs. Kirk called to me one day as I was passing Mr. Bear's room, where she was rummaging. Did you ever see such a den, my dear? Just come and help me put these books to rights, for I've turned everything upside down trying to discover what he has done with the six new handkerchiefs I gave him not long ago. I went in, and while we worked I looked about me, for it was a den, to be sure—books and papers everywhere, a broken mirsham, and an old flute over the mantelpiece as if done with, a ragged bird without any tail chirped on one window-seat, and a box of white mice adorned the other. Half-finished boats and bits of string lay among the manuscripts, dirty little boots stood drying before the fire, and traces of the dearly beloved boys for whom he makes a slave of himself were to be seen all over the room. After a grand rummage three of the missing articles were found, one over the bird-cage, one covered with ink, and the third burned brown, having been used as a potholder. Such a man laughed, good-natured, Mrs. K., as she put the relics in the rag-bag. I suppose the others have been torn up to rig-ships, bandage-cut fingers, and make kite-tails. It's dreadful, but I can't scold him—he's so absent-minded and good-natured. He lets those boys ride over him roughshod. I agreed to do his washing and mending, but he forgets to give me his things, and I forget to look them over, so he comes to a sad pass sometimes. Let me mend them, I said. I don't mind it, and he needn't know. I'd like to, he's so kind to me about bringing my letters and lending books. So I have got his things in order, and knit heels into two pairs of the socks, for they were boggled out of shape with his queer-darning. Nothing was said, and I hoped he wouldn't find it out. But one day, last week, he caught me at it. Hearing the lessons he gives to others has interested and amused me so much that I took a fancy to learn. Fratina runs in and out, leaving the door open, and I can hear. I had been sitting near this door, finishing off the last sock, and trying to understand what he said to a new scholar, who is as stupid as I am. The girl had gone, and I thought he had also, it was so still, so I was busily gabbling over a verb, and rocking to and fro in a most absurd way, when a little crow made me look up, and there was Mr. Bear, looking and laughing quietly, while he made signs to Tina not to betray him. So, he said, as I stopped and stared like a goose, you peep at me, I peep at you, and this is not bad. But see, I am not pleasanting when I say, have you a wish for German? Yes, but you're too busy, I am too stupid to learn, I blundered out, as read as a peony. Prout, we will make the time, and we fail not to find the sense. At evening I shall give a little lesson, with much gladness, for look you, Miss March, I have this debt to pay, and he pointed to my work. Yes, they say to one another, these so kind ladies, he is a stupid old fellow, he will not see what we do, he will never observe that his sock heels go not in holes any more, he will think his buttons grow out new when they fall, and believe that strings make their selves. Ah, but I have an eye, and I see much, I have a heart, and I feel thanks for this. Come, a little lesson now and then, or no more fairy good works for me and mine. Of course I couldn't say anything after that, and as it really is a splendid opportunity, I made the bargain, and we began. I took four lessons, and then I stuck fast in a grammatical bog. The Professor was very patient with me, but it must have been torment to him, and now and then he'd look at me with such an expression of mild despair that it was a toss up with me whether to laugh or cry. I tried both ways, and when it came to a sniff of utter mortification and woe, he just threw the grammar onto the floor and marched out of the room. I felt myself disgraced and deserted forever but I didn't blame him a particle, and I was scrambling my papers together, meaning to rush upstairs and shake myself hard, when in he came, as brisk and beaming as if I had covered myself in glory. Now we shall try a new way. You and I will read these pleasant little Martian together, and dig no more in that dry book that goes in the corner for making us trouble. He spoke so kindly, and opened Hans Anderson's fairy tales, so invitingly before me, that I was more ashamed than ever, and went at my lesson in a neck or nothing style that seemed to amuse him immensely. I forgot my bashfulness, and pegged away, no other word will express it, with all my might, tumbling over long words, pronouncing according to inspiration of the minute, and doing my very best. When I finished reading my first page, and stopped for breath, he clapped his hands and cried out in his hearty way, Das ist gut. Now we go well. My turn. I do him in German, give me your ear. And away he went, rumbling out the words with his strong voice, and a relish which was good to see as well as hear. Fortunately the story was the constant tin soldier, which is droll, you know, so I could laugh, and I did, though I didn't understand half he read, for I couldn't help it, he was so earnest, I was so excited, and the whole thing so comical. After that we got on better, and now I read my lessons pretty well, for this way of studying suits me, and I can see that the grammar gets tucked into the tales and poetry as one gives pills in jelly. I like it very much, and he doesn't seem tired of it yet, which is very good of him, isn't it? I mean to give him something on Christmas, for I dare not offer money. Tell me something nice, Marmy. I'm glad Laurie seems so happy and busy, that he has given up smoking and lets his hair grow. You see, Beth manages him better than I did. I'm not jealous, dear, do your best, only don't make a saint of him, I'm afraid I wouldn't like him without a spice of human naughtiness. Read him bits of my letters, I haven't time to write much, and that will do just as well. Thank heaven Beth continues so comfortable. January. A happy new year to you all, my dearest family, which of course includes Mr. L. and a young man by the name of Teddy. I can't tell you how much I enjoyed your Christmas bundle, for I didn't get it till night and I had given up hoping. Your letter came in the morning, but you said nothing about a parcel, meaning it for a surprise, so I was disappointed, for I'd had a kind of feeling that you wouldn't forget me. I felt a little low in my mind as I sat up in my room after tea, and when that big, muddy, battered-looking bundle was brought to me I just hugged it and pranced. It was so homey and refreshing that I sat down on the floor, and read and looked and ate and laughed and cried in my usual absurd way. The things were all just what I wanted, and all the better for being made instead of bought. Beth's new ink bib was capital, and Hannah's box of hard gingerbread will be a treasure. I'll be sure and wear the nice flannels you sent, Marmy, and read carefully the books that Father has marked. Thank you all, heaps and heaps. Speaking of books reminds me that I'm getting rich in that line, for on New Year's day Mr. Baer gave me a fine Shakespeare. It's one he values much, and I've often admired it, set up in the place of honour, with his German Bible, Plato, Homer, and Milton, so you may imagine how I felt when he brought it down, without its cover, and showed me my own name in it, from my friend Friedrich Baer. You say often you wish a library, here I give you one, for between these lids, he meant covers, is many books in one. Read him well, and he will help you much, for the study of character in this book will help you to read it in the world and paint it with your pen. I thanked him as well as I could, and I talk now about my library as if I had a hundred books. I never knew how much there was in Shakespeare before, but then I never had a Baer to explain it to me. Now don't laugh at his horrid name. It isn't pronounced either Baer or Beer, as people will say it, but something between the two, as only Germans can give it. I'm glad you both like what I tell you about him, and I hope you will know him some day. Mother would admire his warm heart, father his wise head. I admire both, and feel rich in my new friend Friedrich Baer. Not having much money, or knowing what he would like, I got several little things, and put them about the room, where he would find them unexpectedly. They were useful, pretty, or funny. A new standish on his table, a little vase for his flower, he always has one, or a bit of green in a glass to keep him fresh, he says, and a holder for his blower so that he needn't burn up what Amy calls mouchoirs. I made it like those Beth invented, a big butterfly with a fat body, and black and yellow wings, worsted feelers, and beads for eyes. It took his fancy immensely, and he put it on his mantelpiece as an article of virtue, so it was rather a failure after all. Poor as he is, he didn't forget a servant or a child in the house, and not a soul here from the French laundry woman to Miss Norton forgot him. I was so glad of that. They got up a masquerade and had a gay time New Year's Eve. I didn't mean to go down having no dress, but at the last minute Mrs. Kirk remembered some old brocades, and Miss Norton lent me lace and feathers, so I dressed up as Mrs. Malaprop, and sailed in with a mask on. No one knew me, for I disguised my voice, and no one dreamed of the silent, haughty Miss March, for they think I am very stiff and cool most of them, and so I am to whipper snappers. But could dance and dress, and burst out into a nice derangement of epitaphs, like an allegory on the banks of the Nile? I enjoyed it very much, and when we unmasked it was fun to see them stare at me. I heard one of the young men tell another that he knew I'd been an actress, in fact he thought he remembered seeing me at one of the minor theatres. Meg will relish that joke. Mr. Bear was Nick Bottom, and Tina was Titania, a perfect little fairy in his arms. To see them dance was quite a landscape to use a teddism. I had a very happy New Year, after all, and when I thought it over in my room I felt as if I was getting on a little in spite of my many failures, for I'm cheerful all the time now, work with a will, and take more interest in other people than I used to, which is satisfactory. Bless you all, ever your loving Joe.