 CHAPTER VI CALLS Come, Joe, it's time. For what? You don't mean to say that you have forgotten that you promised to make half a dozen calls with me today? I've done a good many rash and foolish things in my life, but I don't think I ever was mad enough to say I'd make six calls in one day, when a single one upsets me for a week. Yes, you did. It was a bargain between us. I was to finish the crayon of Beth for you, and you were to go properly with me and return our neighbor's visits. If it was fair that was in the bond, and I stand to the letter of my bond, Shylock, there is a pile of clouds in the east, it's not fair, and I don't go. Now that's shirking. It's a lovely day, no prospect of rain, and you pride yourself on keeping promises, so be honorable, come and do your duty, and then be at peace for another six months. At that minute, Joe was particularly absorbed in dressmaking, for she was Manchua-maker general to the family, and took a special credit to herself because she could use a needle as well as a pen. It was provoking to be arrested in the act of first trying on, and ordered out to make calls in her best array on a warm July day, she hated calls of the formal sort, and never made any till Amy compelled her with a bargain, bribe, or promise. In the present instance there was no escape, and having clashed her scissors rebelliously while protesting that she smelled thunder, she gave in, put away her work, and taken up her hat and gloves with an air of resignation, told Amy the victim was ready. Joe March, you are perverse enough to provoke a saint. You don't intend to make calls in that state, I hope, cried Amy, surveying her with amazement. Why not? I am neat, and cool, and comfortable, quite proper for a dusty walk on a warm day. If people care more for my clothes than they do for me, I don't wish to see them. You can dress for both, and be as elegant as you please. It pays for you to be fine, it doesn't for me, and fur below's only worry me. Oh dear, sighed Amy. Now she's in a contrary fit, and will drive me distracted before I can get properly ready. I'm sure it's no pleasure to me to go today, but it's a debt we owe society, and there's no one to pay it but you and me. I'll do anything for you, Joe. If you'll only dress yourself nicely and come and help me do this civil, you can talk so well. Look so aristocratic in your best things, and behave so beautifully if you try, that I'm proud of you. I'm afraid to go alone. Do come and take care of me. You're an artful little puss to flatter, and whittle your cross old sister in that way. The idea of my being aristocratic and well-bred, and your being afraid to go anywhere alone. I don't know which is the most absurd. Well, I'll go if I must, and do my best. You shall be commander of the expedition, and I'll obey blindly. Will that satisfy you, said Joe? Would the sudden change from perversity to lamb-like submission? You're a perfect cherub. Now put on all your best things, and I'll tell you how to behave at each place, so that you will make a good impression. I want people to like you, and they would if you only try to be a little more agreeable. Do your hair the pretty way, and put the pink rose in your bonnet. It's becoming, and you look too sober in your plain suit. Take your light-gloves, and the embroidered handkerchief. We'll stop at Megs and borrow her white sunshade, then you can have my dove-colored one. While Amy dressed, she issued orders, and Joe obeyed them. Not without entering her protest, however, for she sighed as she rustled into her new organdy, frowned darkly at herself as she tied her bonnet strings in an irreproachable bow, wrestled viciously with pins as she put on her collar, wrinkled up her features generally as she took out the handkerchief, whose embroidery was as irritating to her nose as the present mission was to her feelings, and when she had squeezed her hands into the tight gloves with three buttons and a tassel, as the last touch of elegance, she turned to Amy with an imbecile expression of continence, saying meekly, I'm perfectly miserable, but if you consider me presentable, I die happy. Your highly satisfactory turned slowly round, and let me get a careful view. Joe revolved, and Amy gave a touch here and there, then fell back, with her head on one side observing graciously. Yes, you'll do. Your head is all I could ask, for that white bonnet with the rose is quite ravishing. Pull back your shoulders and carry your hands easily, no matter if your gloves do pinch. There's one thing you can do well, Joe, that is, wear a shawl. I can't, but it's very nice to see you, and I'm so glad Aunt March gave you that lovely one. It's simple, but handsome, and those folds over the arm are really artistic. Is the point of my mantle in the middle, and have I looped my dress evenly? I like to show my boots, for my feet are pretty, though my nose isn't. You are a thing of beauty and a joy forever, said Joe, looking through her hand with an air of connoisseur, at a blue feather against the golden hair. Am I to drag my best dress through the dust, or loop it up, please, ma'am? Hold it up when you walk, but drop it in the house. The sweeping style suits you best, and you must learn to trail your skirts gracefully. You haven't half-buttoned one cuff. Do it at once. You'll never look finished if you are not careful about the little details, for they make up the pleasing whole. Joe sighed, and proceeded to burst the buttons off her glove, in doing up her cuff, but at last both were ready, and sailed away, looking as pretty as pictures Hannah said as she hung out of the upper window to watch them. Now Joe dear, the Chesters consider themselves very elegant people, so I want you to put on your best deportment. Don't make any of your abrupt remarks, or do anything odd, will you? Just be calm, cool, and quiet. That's safe and ladylike, and you can easily do it for fifteen minutes, said Amy, as they approached the first place, having borrowed the white parasol and been inspected by Meg with a baby on each arm. Let me see, calm, cool, and quiet. Yes, I think I can promise that. I've played the part of a prim young lady on the stage, and I'll try it off. My powers are great, as you shall see, so be easy in your mind, my child. Amy looked relieved, but Naughty Joe took her at her word, for during the first call she sat with every limb gracefully composed, every fold correctly draped, calm as a summer sea, cool as a snowbank, and silent as the sphinx. In vain Mrs. Chester alluded to her charming novel, and the Mrs. Chester introduced parties, picnics, the opera, and the fashions. Each and all were answered by a smile, a bow, and a demor yes or no with the chill on. In vain Amy telegraphed the word talk, tried to draw her out, and administered covert pokes with her foot. Joe sat as if blandly unconscious of it all, with a deportment like Maude's face, heistly regular, splendidly null. What a haughty, uninteresting creature that oldest Miss March is! Was the unfortunately audible remark of one of the ladies as the door closed upon their guests? Joe laughed noiselessly all through the hall, but Amy looked disgusted at the failure of her instructions, and very naturally laid the blame upon Joe. How could you mistake me so? I merely meant you to be properly dignified and composed, and you made yourself a perfect stock and stone. Try to be sociable at the lambs, gossip as the other girls do, and be interested in dress and flirtations and whatever nonsense comes up. They move in the best society, are valuable persons for us to know, and I wouldn't fail to make a good impression there for anything. I'll be agreeable, I'll gossip and giggle, and have whores and raptures over any trifle you like. I rather enjoy this, and now I'll imitate what is called a charming girl. I can do it, for I have made Chester as a model, and I'll improve upon her, see if the lambs don't say what a lively nice creature that Joe March is. Amy felt anxious, as well she might, for when Joe turned freakish there was no knowing where she would stop. Amy's face was a study when she saw her sister skim into the next drawing-room, kiss all the young ladies with effusion, beam graciously upon the young gentleman, and join in the chat with a spirit which amazed the beholder. Amy was taken possession of by Mrs. Lamb with whom she was a favorite, and forced to hear a long account of Lucretia's last attack, while three delightful young gentlemen hovered near, waiting for a pause when they might rush in and rescue her. So situated she was powerless to check Joe, who seemed possessed by a spirit of mischief, and talked away as volubly as the lady. A knot of heads gathered about her, and Amy strained her ears to hear what was going on, for broken sentences filled her with curiosity, and frequent peals of laughter made her while to share the fun. One may imagine her suffering on overhearing fragments of this sort of conversation. She rides splendidly, who taught her? No one, she used to practice mounting, holding the reins, and sitting straight on an old saddle in a tree. Now she rides anything, for she doesn't know what fear is, and the stableman lets her have horses cheap because she trains them to carry ladies so well. She has such a passion for it, I often tell her if everything fails, she can be a horse breaker and get her living so. At this awful speech Amy contained herself with difficulty, for the impression was being given that she was a rather fast young lady, which was her a special aversion. But what could she do? For the old lady was in the middle of her story, and long before it was done. Joe was off again, make more droll revelations, and committing still more fearful blunders. Yes, Amy was in despair that day, for all the good beasts were gone, and of the three left one was lame, one blind, and the other so bulky that you had to put dirt in his mouth before he would start. Nice animal for a pleasure party, wasn't it? Which did she choose, asked one of the laughing gentlemen who enjoyed the subject? None of them. She heard of a young horse at the farmhouse over the river, and though a lady had never ridden him, she resolved to try, because he was handsome and spirited. Her struggles were really pathetic. There was no one to bring the horse to the saddle, so she took the saddle to the horse. My dear creature, she actually rode it over the river, put it on her head, and marched up to the barn to the utter amazement of the old man. Did she ride the horse? Of course she did, and had a capital time. I expected to see her brought home in fragments, but she managed him perfectly, and was the life of the party. While I called that plucky, and young Mr. Lam turned an approving glance upon Amy, wondering what his mother could be saying to make the girl look so red and uncomfortable. She was still redder and more uncomfortable a moment after, when a sudden turn in the conversation introduced the subject of dress. One of the young ladies asked Joe where she got the pretty drab hat she wore to the picnic and, stupid Joe, instead of mentioning the place where it was bought two years ago, must need answer with unnecessary frankness. Oh, Amy painted it. You can't buy those soft shades, so we paint ours any color we like. It's a great comfort to have an artistic sister. Isn't that an original idea, cried Miss Lam, who found Joe great fun? That's nothing compared to some of her brilliant performances. There's nothing the child can't do. Why she wanted a pair of blue boots for Sally's party. So she just painted her soiled white ones, the loveliest shade of sky blue you ever saw, and they look exactly like satin at a Joe. With an air of pride in her sister's accomplishments, that exasperated Amy till she felt that it would be a relief to throw her card case at her. We read a story of yours the other day, and enjoyed it very much, observed the elder Miss Lam, wishing to compliment the literary lady who did not look the character just then, it must be confessed. Any mention of her works always had a bad effect upon Joe, who either grew rigid and look offended, or changed the subject with a brusque remark as now. Sorry, you could find nothing better to read. I write that rubbish because it sells, and ordinary people like it. Are you going to New York this winter? As Miss Lam had enjoyed the story, this speech was not exactly grateful or complementary. The minute it was made, Joe saw our mistake, but fearing to make the matter worse, suddenly remembered that it was for her to make the first move toward departure, and did so with an abruptness that left three people with half-finished sentences in their mouths. Amy, we must go. Goodbye, dear. Do come and see us. We are pining for a visit. I don't dare to ask you, Mr. Lam, but if you should come, I don't think I shall have the heart to send you away. Joe said this was such a droll imitation of Mae Chester's gushing style that Amy got out of the room as rapidly as possible, feeling a strong desire to laugh and cry at the same time. Didn't I do well, asked Joe, with the satisfied air as they walked away? Nothing could have been worse was Amy's crushing reply, what possessed you to tell those stories about my saddle, and the hats, and boots, and all the rest of it. Why, it's funny and amuses people. They know we are poor, it's no use pretending that we have grooms, buy three or four hats a season, and have things as easy and fine as they do. You needn't go and tell them all our little shifts and expose our poverty in that perfectly unnecessary way. You haven't a bit of proper pride and never will learn when to hold your tongue and when to speak, said Amy despairingly. Poor Joe looked abashed, and silently chafed the end of her nose with a stiff handker chiff as if performing a penance for her misdemeanors. How shall I behave here, she asked as they approached the third mansion? Just as you please, I wash my hands of you, was Amy's short answer. Then I'll enjoy myself, the boys are at home, and we'll have a comfortable time. Goodness knows I need a little change, for elegance has a bad effect upon my constitution. Returned Joe gruffly, being disturbed by her failure to suit. An enthusiastic welcome from the three big boys and several pretty children speedily soothed her ruffled feelings and leaving Amy to entertain the hostess and mistritor who happened to be calling likewise, Joe devoted herself to the young folks and found the change refreshing. She listened to college stories with deep interest, caressed pointers and poodles without a murmur, agreed heartily that Tom was a brick, regardless of the improper form of praise, and when one lad proposed a visit to his turtle tank, she went with alacrity which caused Mama to smile upon her as that motherly lady settled the cap, which was left in a ruinous condition by filial hugs, bare-like but affectionate, and dearer to her than the most faultless coffure from the hens of an inspired Frenchwoman. Leaving her sister to her own devices, Amy proceeded to enjoy herself to her heart's content. Mr. Tudor's uncle had married an English lady who was third cousin to a living lord, and Amy regarded the whole family with great respect. For in spite of her American birth and breeding, she possessed that reverence for titles which haunts the best of us, that acknowledged the loyalty to the early faith and kings which set the most democratic nation under the sun and ferment at the coming of a royal yellow-haired laddie some years ago, and which still has something to do with the love the young country bears the old. Like that of a big son for an imperious little mother who held him while she could, and let him go with a farewell scolding when he rebelled. But even the satisfaction of talking with a distant connection of the British nobility did not render Amy forgetful of time, and when the proper number of minutes had passed, she reluctantly tore herself from this aristocratic society and looked about for Joe, feverently hoping that her incorrigible sister would not be found in any position which should bring disgrace upon the name of March. It might have been worse, but Amy considered it bad, for Joe sat on the grass with an encapement of boys about her, and a dirty-footed dog reposing on the skirt of her state and festival dress, as she related one of Lori's pranks to her admiring audience. One small child was poking turtles with Amy's cherished parasol, a second was eating gingerbread over Joe's best bonnet, and a third playing ball with her gloves, but all were enjoying themselves, and when Joe collected her damaged property to go, her escort accompanied her, begging her to come again. It was such fun to hear about Lori's larks. Capital boys, aren't they? I feel quite young and brisk again after that, said Joe, strolling along with her hands behind her, partly from habit, partly concealed the bespattered parasol. And why do you always avoid Mr. Tudor, asked Amy wisely refraining from any comment upon Joe's dilapidated appearance? Don't like him. He puts on airs, snubs his sisters, worries his father, and doesn't speak respectfully of his mother. Lori says that he is fast, and I don't consider him a desirable acquaintance, so I let him alone. You might treat him civilly at least. You gave him a cool nod, and just now you bowed and smiled in the politest way to Tommy Chamberlain, whose father keeps a grocery store. If you would have just reversed the nod and the bow, it would have been right, said Amy reprovingly. No, it wouldn't, returned Joe. I neither like, respect, nor admire Tudor. Though his grandfather's uncle's nephew's niece was a third cousin to a lord, Tommy is poor and bashful and good and very clever. I think well of him and like to show that I do, for he is a gentleman in spite of the brown paper parcels. It's no use trying to argue with you, began Amy. Not the least, my dear, interrupted Joe. So let's look amiable and drop a card here as the kings are evidently out, for which I'm deeply grateful. The family card case, having done its duty, the girls walked on, and Joe uttered another thanksgiving on reaching the fifth house and being told that the young ladies were engaged. Now let's go home and never mind at March today. We can run down there any time. And it's really a pity to trail through the dust in our best bibs and tuckers when we are tired and cross. Take for yourself, if you please. Aunt March likes to have us pay her the compliment of coming in style and making a formal call. It's a little thing to do, but it gives her pleasure, and I don't believe it will hurt your things half so much, as letting dirty dogs and clumping boys spoil them. Stoop down and let me take the crumbs off of your bonnet. What a good girl you are, Amy, said Joe, with a repentant glance from her own damaged costume to that of her sister, which was fresh and spotless still. I wish it was as easy for me to do little things to please people as it is for you. I think of them, but it takes too much time to do them, so I wait for a chance to confer a great favour and let the small one slip. But they tell best in the end, I fancy. Amy smiled, and was mollified at once, saying with a maternal air. Women should learn to be agreeable, particularly poor ones, for they have no other way of repaying the kindness they receive. If you remember that, and practice it, you'd be better like than I am, because there is more of you. I'm a crotchety old thing, and always shall be, but I'm willing to own that you are right. Only it's easier for me to risk my life for a person than to be pleasant to him when I don't feel like it. It's a great misfortune to have such strong likes and dislikes, isn't it? It's a greater not to be able to hide them. I don't mind saying that I don't approve of Tudor any more than you do. But I'm not called upon to tell him so, neither are you, and there is no use in making yourself disagreeable because he is. But I think girls ought to show when they disapprove of young men, and how could they do it except by their manners? Preaching does not do any good, as I know to my sorrow since I've had Teddy to manage, but there are many little ways in which I can influence him without a word, and I say we ought to do it to others if we can. He is a remarkable boy, and can't be taken as a sample of other boys, said Amy Natone's solemn conviction which would have convulsed the remarkable boy if he had heard it. If we were bells or women of wealth and position we might do something, perhaps, but for us to frown at one set of young gentlemen because we don't approve of them and smile upon another set because we do wouldn't have a particle of effect, and we should only be considered odd and puritanical. So we are to continence things and people which we detest, merely because we are not bells and millionaires, are we? That's a nice sort of morality. I can't argue about it. I only know that it's the way of the world, and people who set themselves against it only get laughed at for their pains. I don't like reformers, and I hope you never try to be one. I do like them, and I shall be one if I can, for in spite of the laughing in the world would never get on without them. I can't agree about that. For you belong to the old set, and I to the new. You will get on the best, but I shall have the liveliest time of it. I should rather enjoy the brick-backs and hooting, I think. Well compose yourself now, and don't worry aunt with your new ideas. I'll try not to, but I'm always possessed to burst out with some particularly blunt speech or revolutionary sentiment before her. It's my doom, and I can't help it. They found aunt Carol with the old lady, both absorbed in some very interesting subject, but they dropped it as the girls came in, with a conscious look which betrayed that they had been talking about their nieces. Joe was not in good humor, and the perverse fit returned, but Amy, who had virtuously done her duty, kept her temper and pleased everybody, was in most angelic frame of mind. This amiable spirit was felt at once. Both aunts mydeered her affectionately. Given what they afterwards said emphatically, that child improves every day. Are you going to help with the fair, dear? asked Mrs. Carol, as Amy sat down beside her with the confiding, heir, elderly people like so well in the young. Yes, aunt, Mrs. Chester asked me if I would, and I offered to tend a table, as I have nothing but my time to give. I'm not, put in Joe decidedly. I hate to be patronized, and the Chesters think it's a great favor to allow us to help with their highly connected fair. I wonder you consented, Amy. They only want you to work. I'm willing to work. It's for the freedmen as well as the Chesters, and I think it very kind of them to let me share the labor and the fun. Patronage does not trouble me when it is well meant. Quite right and proper. I like your grateful spirit, my dear. It's a pleasure to help people who appreciate our efforts. Some do not. And that is trying. Aunt March, looking over her spectacles at Joe, who sat apart, rocking herself, with a somewhat morose expression. If Joe had only known what a great happiness was wavering in the balance for one of them, she would have turned dove-like in a minute. But unfortunately we don't have windows in our breasts, and cannot see what goes on in the minds of our friends. Better for us that we cannot, as a general thing. But now and then it would be such a comfort, such a saving of time and temper. By her next speech, Joe deprived herself of several years of pleasure, and received a timely lesson in the art of holding her tongue. I don't like favors. They oppress and make me feel like a slave. I'd rather do everything for myself and be perfectly independent. Cough, coughed Aunt Carol softly with a look at Aunt March. I told you so, said Aunt March, with a decided nod to Aunt Carol. Mercifully unconscious of what she had done, Joe sat with her nose in the air, and a revolutionary aspect which was anything but inviting. Do you speak French, dear, asked Mrs. Carol, laying a hand on Amy's? Pretty well, thanks to Aunt March, who lets Esther talk to me as often as I like, replied Amy with a grateful look which caused the old lady to smile affably. How are you about languages, asked Mrs. Carol of Joe? Don't know a word. I'm very stupid about studying anything, can't bear French. It's such a slippery, silly sort of language, was the brusque reply. Another look passed between the ladies, and Aunt March said to Amy. You are quite strong and well, no, dear, I believe. Eyes don't trouble you any more, do they? Not at all, thank you, ma'am, I'm very well. I mean to do great things next winter, so that I may be ready for Rome whenever that joyful time arrives. Good girl, you deserve to go, and I'm sure you will someday, said Aunt March with an approving pat on the head as Amy picked up her ball for her. Cross patch, straw the latch, sit by the fire and spin, squalled Polly, bending down from his perch on the back of her chair to peep into Joe's face with such a comical air of impertinent inquiry that it was impossible to help laughing. Most observing bird, said the old lady. Come and take a walk, my dear, cried Polly, hopping toward the china closet with a look suggested of a lump of sugar. Thank you, I will. Come, Amy, and Joe brought the visit to an end, feeling more strongly than ever that calls did have a bad effect upon her constitution. She shook hands in a gentlemanly manner, but Amy kissed both aunts and the girls departed, leaving behind them the impression of shadow and sunshine, which impression caused Aunt March to say as they vanished. You'd better do it, Mary. I'll supply the money, and Aunt Carol to reply decidedly. I certainly will, if her father and mother consent. CHAPTER 7 OF GOOD WIVES RECORDING BY CALM DRAGON Mrs. Chester's fair was so very elegant and select that it was considered a great honor by the young ladies of the neighborhood to be invited to take a table, and everyone was much interest in the matter. Amy was asked, but Joe was not, which was fortune 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 complimented 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. Mae Chester was rather jealous of Amy because the latter was a great favorite than herself, and just at this time several trifling circumstances occurred to increase the feeling. Amy's dainty pen and inkwork entirely eclipsed Mae's painted vases. That was one thorn. Then the all-conquering tutor had danced four times with Amy at a late party and only once with Mae. That was thorn number two. But the chief grievance that rankled in her soul and gave an excuse for her unfriendly conduct was a rumor which some obliging gossip had whispered to her that the March girls had made fun of her at the lambs. All of the blame of this should have fallen upon Jo, 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 this 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 not 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 would not guess what, and said quietly, feeling hurt, and showing that she did. Perhaps you'd 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 favor. She colored angrily, but took no other notice of that grilish 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 conscious 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 pal-mel, 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 disconsolently 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, with 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 will sympathize with poor Amy and wish 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 have 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, Marmy? That's the right spirit, my dear. A kiss for a blow is always best, though it's not very easy to give it some time, said her mother, with an 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 opportunally. As she arranged her table that morning, while the little girls were in their 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 brilliant scroll work 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 could once filled. Amy stood a minute, turning the leaves in her hand, reading on each some sweet rebuke for all heartburnings and unchartableness of spirit. Many wise and true sermons are preached us every day by unconscious ministers and 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 little sermon from that text, then and there, and she did what many of us do not always do, took the sermon to her heart, and straight away put it in 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 sourfully, It's too bad, for there's 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, begin 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 offer 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 for a minute Amy was sorry she had done it, feeling that virtue was not always its one reward. But it is, and 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 lack seemed to have cleared the atmosphere amazingly. It was a very long day, and a hard one for Amy, and 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 Lori 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 air, 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 your 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. Telling those boys we'll lend a hand, and we'll have a good time yet, returned Joe, leaning over the gate to watch for Lori. Presently the familiar tramp was heard in the desk, 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 doings, 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, observed Joe in a disgusted voice. Didn't Hayes give you the best 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 full-andering 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 within hospitable 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 in moss, 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 at it for her sister's things, but saw no sign of them. Tucked away out of sight, I daresay, thought Joe, who could forgive her 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 air, 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 faces 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 sold long ago, 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 mind, especially the art table, she said, ordering out Teddy's owns, 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 fair far than May, said little Parker making a frantic effort to be both witty and tender, and getting promptly quenched by Lori, 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 Lori as a 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 wondered 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 being 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 goodnight, 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 peraded on the parlor chimney piece with a great bouquet in each, the reward of merit for a magnanimous March, as Laurie announced with a flourish. You've a deal more principal in 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 I 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. Marchface was illuminated to such a degree when she read it that Joe and Beth who were with her demanded what the glad tidying were. Aunt Carol is going abroad next month, and once, 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's 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 flow, 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 sourfully, I wish she could have gone, but there is no hope of it this time, so try to bear it cheerfully, and don't send 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's a dreadful disappointment, and poor Joe bedoed the little fat pen-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're not going quite yet, whispered Beth embracing her in 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 favor, 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 hardly 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 colors and pack her pencils that evening, leaving such trifles as clothes, money, and passports to those less absorbed in visions 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, provide 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 day, 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 the lady bountiful would suit her better than that of a poor drawing-teacher. Hmm, 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 parting 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 affirmant till Amy was off. Joe bore up very well to 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 a 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 Laurie, 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 comfort you, whispered Laurie, 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. CHAPTER VIII. 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 so kind to me, especially the officers. Don't laugh, Joe. Gentlemen really are a 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. Aunts and flow are poorly all the way, and like to be let alone, so when I had done what I could do for them, I went and enjoyed myself. Such walks on deck, such sunsets, such blended 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 that 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 in, with a look at me. Oh, have you ever heard of Kate Kearney? She lives on the banks of Kilarney, from the glance of her eye, shun danger and fly, for fatal's the glance of Kate Kearney. 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 dogskin gloves, some ugly, thick shoes, and an umbrella, and got shaved all a mutton chop the first thing. Then he flattered himself that he looked like a true Briton. But the first time he had the mud cleaned off his shoes, the little boot-black new that an American stood in him, he said with a grin. There you are, sir. I have given him the latest Yankee shine. It amused Uncle immensely. Oh, I must tell you what the 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 never shall 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, lattice windows, and stout women with rosy children at 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 60 miles an hour. Aunt 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 Kellenworth, that grey place among the trees. Flo, darting to my window. How sweet! We must go there sometimes, 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 too tall post with a crossbeam and some dangling chains. A collery, 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 lady's, returns Uncle, and the 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, unpacked, 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, blue feather, and a Muslim dress to match, and the loveliest mantle you ever saw. Shopping in Regency does 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 afterward that it wasn't a thing for young ladies to ride in them alone, it was so droll, for when we were shut in by the wood in April, 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-eyed appeared, and with a beery 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 than off we 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're 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 around in their red and yellow coaches, with gorgeous Jamonsons in silk stockings and velvet coats up behind, and powdered coachmen in front. Smart maids with the rosiest 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'd long to sketch them. Rotten Roe meets Roe de Roy, or the Kingsway, 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 long to show them a tearing American gallop, for they trotted solemnly up and down in their scant habits and high hats, looking like 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 say a pair exchange rose buds, for it's the thing to wear one in the buttonhole, and I thought it a rather 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 Fletcher, which will be an appropriate end to the happiest day of my life. Midnight. 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? Lori's English friends, Fred and Frank Vaughn. I was so surprised, for I shouldn't have known them, but for their 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 Lori 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 flow, and Fred and I talked over past, present, and future fun as if we had known each other all our days. Till Beth, Frank'd 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? Aunt is tapping on the wall for the third time, so I must stop. I really feel like a dissipated London fine lady, writing 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 lordiness. 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 in 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 hope 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 heartily settled here when he turned up again, saying he had come for a holiday and was going to Switzerland. Aunt looks sober at first, but he was so cool about it, she couldn't say a word, and now he gets on nicely and are very glad if 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 some 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 vuing, as Uncle calls it. Such delightful times as we are having, sightseeing 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 lure, 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 am cultivation-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 in gray coat, his baby's cradle and his old toothbrush, also Marie Antoinette'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 haven't time to write. The Palais Royale is a heavenly place, so full of bijotery 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 boys, and the Champs Elysees, are tre 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 nap is a handsome boy who sits chatting to his tutor, and kissed his hand to the people as he passes in his four-horse brooch, with positions 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 garden suit me better. Perla 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, ne sais pas. Our rooms are on the rue de Rivoli, 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 men I ever knew, except Lori, whose manners are more charming. I wish Fred was dark, for I don't fancy light men, however the vans 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. Adieu, I embrace you tenderly. Votré ami. 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 Koblenz we had a lovely time, for some students from Bon, with whom Fred got acquainted on the boat, gave us a serenade. It was a moonlight night, and about one o'clock Flo and I were awaked by the most delicious music under our windows. We flew up and hid behind the curtains, but Sly Peep 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. Kissed 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 flow. 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'd hoped he'd marry soon, and I quite agree with her that it would be well for him. Frankfurt was delightful. I saw Goeth's house, Schiller statue, and Danaker's famous aridine. 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 wish 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 is just gone. He has been so kind and jolly that we all got quite fond of him. I never thought of anything but a traveling 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 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 Laurences. 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 its 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 OK all around. I won't marry 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, looks sentimental when we are alone, and frowns at anyone else who ventures to speak to me. Yesterday at dinner, when an Austrian office stared at us and then said something to his friend, a rakish-looking Baron about, in Wunderschkohn's blanchen, 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 going to meet us there after going to the post-ristante for letters. We had a charming time poking about the ruins, the vaults where the monsters' tone 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 lion's head on the wall, with scarlet wood-bind sprays hanging round it. I felt as if I'd got into a romance, sitting there, watching the macaw 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 quirky, but quite cool and only a little excited. By and by I heard Fred's voice, and then he came hurring 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'd just got a letter begging him to come home, for Frank was very ill, so he was going at 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 often 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 the sort yet awhile, 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. Every year, Amy. Jove, 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. I 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 evades my question, or looked so distressed that I stopped. I never force my children's confidence, and I seldom have to wait for long. Mrs. March glanced at Jo as she spoke, but the face opposite seemed quite unconscious of any secret disquietude but Beth's, and after sewing thoughtfully for a minute, Jo said, I think she is 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 is a woman. So she is. Dear heart, how fast you do grow up, returned 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 is any comfort to you. It is a great comfort, Jo. 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 in 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 falls 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 Jo sooner than to 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 are not very wearing, so they'll keep, and Jo 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, Jo watched Beth, and after many conflicting conjectures, finally settled upon one which seemed to explain the change in her. A slight incident gave Jo 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 Jo, 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 Laurie, 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 Jo stopped and turned scarlet with a sudden thought. If he shouldn't love back again, how dreadful it would be. He must. I'll make him. Then 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 at Paris, and Beth in love. I'm the only one that has sense enough to keep out of mischief. Jo 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 sent her down to take new observations which only confirmed her suspicion. Though Laurie flirted with Amy and joked with Jo, 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 Jo, who, however, wouldn't hear a word upon the subject and scolded violently if anyone dared to suggest it. If they had known the various tender passages which had been nipped in the bud, they would have had the immense satisfaction of saying, I told you so, that Jo hated philandering and wouldn't allow it, always having a joke or a smile ready at the least sign of impending danger. When Laurie first went to college, he fell in love about once a month, but these small flames were as brief as ardent, did no damage, and much amused Jo, who took great interest in the alternations of hot despair and resignation, which were confided to her in their weekly conferences. But there came a time when Laurie 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 Jo, 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 Jo, with a 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 Jo watched Laurie 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 Laurie very kind to her. But having given the reign to her lively fancy, it galloped away with her at a great pace, and common sense, being rather weakened by a long course or romantic writing, did not come to the rescue. As usual Beth lay on the sofa, and Laurie 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 Jo 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 match. Though the phrases caught off a tice, stumped off his ground, and the leg hit for three, were 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 Laurie'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 assiduity that was really almost tender. Who knows? Stranger things have happened, thought Jo 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, Jo 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 well it might be, for the girls had slept and sprawled on it as babies, fished over the back, rode on the arms, and had menageries under it as 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 Jo'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 a special property, being used as a weapon of defense, a barricade, or a stern preventive of too much slumber. Lorraine 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 to Jo in the sofa corner. If the sausage, as he called it, stood on end, it was a sign 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 Jo 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 legs stretched out before him, Lorraine exclaimed with a sigh of satisfaction. Now this is filling at the price. No slang, snapped Jo, slamming down the pillow, but it was too late. There was no room for it, and coasting onto the floor it disappeared in a most mysterious manner. Come, Jo, don't be thorny. After studying himself to a skeleton all week, a fellow deserves petting, and ought to get it. Beth will pet you, I'm busy. No, 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 wheelsome than that touching appeal was seldom heard, but Jo 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 then. 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 Jo 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 Jo, forgetting to play mentor. Take lessons of Amy. She has a regular talent for it. Yes, she does it very prettily, 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, Jo, 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 afterwards, they'd mend their ways, I fancy. They do the same. And as their tongues are 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 Laurie with 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 a trifle. Upon my word, when I see one of those harem-scarrem girls, I always want to say with our friend Cock Robin, Out upon you, fire upon you, bold-faced jig. It was impossible to help laughing at the funny conflict between Laurie's chivalrous reluctance to speak ill of womankind 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 went, 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 Laurie looked at her with an odd mixture of anxiety and merriment in his face. Yes, I do, but you'd better wait till you are through college, on the whole, and be fitting yourself for a 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 Laurie, 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 are 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 Laurie 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's 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 pour 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, Bethie, 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 are 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 ache 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 words 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 brood 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 looks 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, and 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 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 mated for life. You are too much alike and too fond of freedom not to mention hot tempers and strong wills to get unhappily 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 any 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 that 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. 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-lornity. 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-lornity as easily as here to fore. 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 and 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 fits 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 9. Recording by B. G. Oxford