In 1819, Millworker William Collins from Glasgow, Scotland, set up a company for printing and publishing pamphlets, sermons, hymn books and prayer books. That company was Collins and was to mark the birth of HarperCollins Publishers as we know it today. The long tradition of Collins dictionary publishing can be traced back to the first dictionary William published in 1824, Greek and English Lexicon. Indeed, from 1840 onwards, he began to produce illustrated dictionaries and even obtained a licence to print and publish the Bible.

Soon after, William published the first Collins novel, Ready Reckoner, however it was the time of the Long Depression, where harvests were poor, prices were high, potato crops had failed and violence was erupting in Europe. As a result, many factories across the country were forced to close down and William chose to retire in 1846, partly due to the hardships he was facing.

Aged 30, William’s son, William II took over the business. A keen humanitarian with a warm heart and a generous spirit, William II was truly ‘Victorian’ in his outlook. He introduced new, up-to-date steam presses and published affordable editions of Shakespeare’s works and Pilgrim’s Progress, making them available to the masses for the first time. A new demand for educational books meant that success came with the publication of travel books, scientific books, encyclopaedias and dictionaries. This demand to be educated led to the later publication of atlases and Collins also held the monopoly on scripture writing at the time.

In the 1860s Collins began to expand and diversify and the idea of ‘books for the millions’ was developed. Affordable editions of classical literature were published and in 1903 Collins introduced 10 titles in their Collins Handy Illustrated Pocket Novels. These proved so popular that a few years later this had increased to an output of 50 volumes, selling nearly half a million in their year of publication. In the same year, The Everyman’s Library was also instituted, with the idea of publishing an affordable library of the most important classical works, biographies, religious and philosophical treatments, plays, poems, travel and adventure. This series eclipsed all competition at the time and the introduction of paperback books in the 1950s helped to open that market and marked a high point in the industry.

HarperCollins is and has always been a champion of the classics and the current Collins Classics series follows in this tradition – publishing classical literature that is affordable and available to all. Beautifully packaged, highly collectible and intended to be reread and enjoyed at every opportunity.

Go then, my little Book, and show to all That entertain and bid thee welcome shall, What thou dost keep close shut up in thy breast; And wish what thou dost show them may be blest To them for good, may make them choose to be Pilgrims better by far, than thee or me. Tell them of Mercy; she is one Who early hath her pilgrimage begun. Yea, let young damsels learn of her to prize The world which is to come, and so be wise; For little tripping maids may follow God Along the ways which saintly feet have trod.

Adapted from John Bunyan

‘Christmas won’t be Christmas without any presents,’ grumbled Jo, lying on the rug.

‘It’s so dreadful to be poor!’ sighed Meg, looking down at her old dress.

‘I don’t think it’s fair for some girls to have plenty of pretty things, and other girls nothing at all,’ added little Amy, with an injured sniff.

‘We’ve got Father and Mother and each other,’ said Beth, contentedly, from her corner.

The four young faces on which the firelight shone brightened at the cheerful words, but darkened again as Jo said sadly:

‘We haven’t got Father, and shall not have him for a long time.’ She didn’t say ‘perhaps never’, but each silently added it, thinking of Father far away, where the fighting was.

Nobody spoke for a minute; then Meg said in an altered tone:

‘You know the reason Mother proposed not having any presents this Christmas was because it is going to be a hard winter for everyone; and she thinks we ought not to spend money for pleasure when our men are suffering so in the army. We can’t do much, but we can make our little sacrifices, and ought to do it gladly. But I am afraid I don’t’; and Meg shook her head, and she thought regretfully of all the pretty things she wanted.

‘But I don’t think the little we should spend would do any good. We’ve each got a dollar, and the army wouldn’t be much helped by our giving that. I agree not to expect anything from Mother or you, but I do want to buy Undine and Sintram for myself; I’ve wanted it so long,’ said Jo, who was a bookworm.

‘I planned to spend mine on new music,’ said Beth, with a little sigh, which no one heard but the hearthbrush and kettle-holder.

‘I shall get a nice box of Faber’s drawing pencils; I really need them,’ said Amy, decidedly.

‘Mother didn’t say anything about our money, and she won’t wish us to give up everything. Let’s each buy what we want, and have a little fun; I’m sure we work hard enough to earn it,’ cried Jo, examining the heels of her shoes in a gentlemanly manner.

‘I know I do – teaching those tiresome children nearly all day when I am longing to enjoy myself at home,’ began Meg, in the complaining tone again.

‘You don’t have half such a hard time as I do,’ said Jo. ‘How would you like to be shut up for hours with a nervous, fussy old lady, who keeps you trotting, is never satisfied, and worries you till you’re ready to fly out of the window or cry?’

‘It’s naughty to fret; but I do think washing dishes and keeping things tidy is the worst work in the world. It makes me cross; and my hands get so stiff, I can’t practise well at all’; and Beth looked at her rough hands with a sigh that anyone could hear that time.

‘I don’t believe any of you suffer as I do,’ cried Amy; ‘for you don’t have to go to school with impertinent girls, who plague you if you don’t know your lessons, and laugh at your dresses, and label your father if he isn’t rich, and insult you when your nose isn’t nice.’

‘If you mean libel, I’d say so, and not talk about labels, as if Papa was a pickle-bottle,’ advised Jo, laughing.

‘I know what I mean, and you needn’t be statirical about it. It’s proper to use good words, and improve your vocabulary,’ returned Amy, with dignity.

‘Don’t peck at one another, children. Don’t you wish we had the money Papa lost when we were little, Jo? Dear me! how happy and good we’d be, if we had no worries!’ said Meg, who could remember better times.

‘You said, the other day, you thought we were a deal happier than the King children, for they were fighting and fretting all the time, in spite of their money.’

‘So I did, Beth. Well, I think we are; for, though we do have to work, we make fun for ourselves, and are a pretty jolly set, as Jo would say.’

‘Jo does use such slang words!’ observed Amy, with a reproving look at the long figure stretched on the rug. Jo immediately sat up, put her hands in her pockets, and began to whistle.

‘Don’t, Jo; it’s so boyish!’

‘That’s why I do it.’

‘I detest rude, unladylike girls!’

‘I hate affected, niminy-piminy chits!’

‘“Birds in their little nests agree,”’ sang Beth, the peacemaker, with such a funny face that both sharp voices softened to a laugh, and the ‘pecking’ ended for that time.

‘Really, girls, you are both to be blamed,’ said Meg, beginning to lecture in her elder-sisterly fashion. ‘You are old enough to leave off boyish tricks, and to behave better, Josephine. It didn’t matter so much when you were a little girl; but now you are so tall, and turn up your hair, you should remember that you are a young lady.’

‘I’m not! and if turning up my hair makes me one, I’ll wear it in two tails till I’m twenty,’ cried Jo, pulling off her net, and shaking down her chestnut mane. ‘I hate to think I’ve got to grow up, and be Miss March, and wear long gowns, and look as prim as a China-aster! It’s bad enough to be a girl, anyway, when I like boys’ games and work and manners! I can’t get over my disappointment in not being a boy; and it’s worse than ever now, for I’m dying to go and fight with Papa, and I can only stay at home and knit, like a poky old woman!’ And Jo shook the blue army sock till the needles rattled like castanets, and her ball bounded across the room.

‘Poor Jo! It’s too bad, but it can’t be helped; so you must try to be contented with making your name boyish, and playing brother to us girls,’ said Beth, stroking the rough head at her knee with a hand that all the dish-washing and dusting in the world could not make ungentle in its touch.

‘As for you, Amy,’ continued Meg, ‘you are altogether too particular and prim. Your airs are funny now; but you’ll grow up an affected little goose, if you don’t take care. I like your nice manners and refined ways of speaking when you don’t try to be elegant; but your absurd words are as bad as Jo’s slang.’

‘If Jo is a tomboy and Amy a goose, what am I, please?’ asked Beth, ready to share the lecture.

‘You’re a dear, and nothing else,’ answered Meg, warmly; and no one contradicted her, for the ‘Mouse’ was the pet of the family.

As young readers like to know ‘how people look’, we will take this moment to give them a little sketch of the four sisters, who sat knitting away in the twilight, while the December snow fell quietly without, and the fire crackled cheerfully within. It was a comfortable old room, though the carpet was faded and the furniture very plain; for a good picture or two hung on the walls, books filled the recesses, chrysanthemums and Christmas roses bloomed in the windows, and a pleasant atmosphere of home-peace pervaded it.

Margaret, the eldest of the four, was sixteen, and very pretty, being plump and fair, with large eyes, plenty of soft, brown hair, a sweet mouth, and white hands, of which she was rather vain. Fifteen-year-old Jo was very tall, thin, and brown, and reminded one of a colt; for she never seemed to know what to do with her long limbs, which were very much in her way. She had a decided mouth, a comical nose, and sharp, grey eyes, which appeared to see everything, and were by turns fierce, funny, or thoughtful. Her long, thick hair was her one beauty; but it was usually bundled in a net, to be out of her way. Round shoulders had Jo, big hands and feet, a fly-away look to her clothes, and the uncomfortable appearance of a girl who was rapidly shooting up into a woman, and didn’t like it. Elizabeth – or Beth, as everyone called her – was a rosy, smooth-haired, bright-eyed girl of thirteen, with a shy manner, a timid voice, and a peaceful expression, which was seldom disturbed. Her father called her ‘Little Tranquillity’, and the name suited her excellently; for she seemed to live in a happy world of her own, only venturing out to meet the few whom she trusted and loved. Amy, though the youngest, was a most important person – in her own opinion at least. A regular snow-maiden, with blue eyes, and yellow hair, curling on her shoulders, pale and slender, and always carrying herself like a young lady mindful of her manners. What the characters of the four sisters were we will leave to be found out.

The clock struck six; and, having swept up the hearth, Beth put a pair of slippers down to warm. Somehow the sight of the old shoes had a good effect upon the girls; for Mother was coming, and everyone brightened to welcome her. Meg stopped lecturing, and lighted the lamp, Amy got out of the easy-chair without being asked, and Jo forgot how tired she was as she sat up to hold the slippers nearer to the blaze.

‘They are quite worn out; Marmee must have a new pair.’

‘I thought I’d get her some with my dollar,’ said Beth.

‘No, I shall!’ cried Amy.

‘I’m the oldest,’ began Meg, but Jo cut in with a decided:

‘I’m the man of the family now Papa is away, and I shall provide the slippers, for he told me to take special care of Mother while he was gone.’

‘I’ll tell you what we’ll do,’ said Beth; ‘let’s each get her something for Christmas, and not get anything for ourselves.’

‘That’s like you, dear! What will we get?’ exclaimed Jo.

Everyone thought soberly for a minute; then Meg announced as if the idea was suggested by the sight of her own pretty hands, ‘I shall give her a nice pair of gloves.’

‘Army shoes, best to be had,’ cried Jo.

‘Some handkerchiefs, all hemmed,’ said Beth.

‘I’ll get a little bottle of cologne; she likes it, and it won’t cost much, so I’ll have some left to buy my pencils,’ added Amy.

‘How will we give the things?’ asked Meg.

‘Put them on the table, and bring her in and see her open the bundles. Don’t you remember how we used to do on our birthdays?’ answered Jo.

‘I used to be so frightened when it was my turn to sit in the big chair with the crown on, and see you all come marching round to give the presents, with a kiss. I liked the things and the kisses, but it was dreadful to have you sit looking at me while I opened the bundles,’ said Beth, who was toasting her face and the bread for tea, at the same time.

‘Let Marmee think we are getting things for ourselves, and then surprise her. We must go shopping tomorrow afternoon, Meg; there is so much to do about the play for Christmas night,’ said Jo, marching up and down, with her hands behind her back and her nose in the air.

‘I don’t mean to act any more after this time; I’m getting too old for such things,’ observed Meg, who was as much a child as ever about ‘dressing-up’ frolics.

‘You won’t stop, I know, as long as you can trail round in a white gown with your hair down, and wear gold-paper jewellery. You are the best actress we’ve got, and there’ll be an end of everything if you quit the boards,’ said Jo. ‘We ought to rehearse tonight. Come here, Amy, and do the fainting scene, for you are as stiff as a poker in that.’

‘I can’t help it; I never saw anyone faint, and I don’t choose to make myself all black and blue, tumbling flat as you do. If I can go down easily, I’ll drop; if I can’t, I shall fall into a chair and be graceful; I don’t care if Hugo does come at me with a pistol,’ returned Amy, who was not gifted with dramatic power, but was chosen because she was small enough to be borne out shrieking by the villain of the piece.

‘Do it this way; clasp your hands so, and stagger across the room, crying frantically, “Roderigo! save me! save me!”’ and away went Jo, with a melodramatic scream which was truly thrilling.

Amy followed, but she poked her hands out stiffly before her, and jerked herself along as if she went by machinery; and her ‘Ow!’ was more suggestive of pins being run into her than of fear and anguish. Jo gave a despairing groan, and Meg laughed outright, while Beth let her bread burn as she watched the fun with interest.

‘It’s no use! Do the best you can when the time comes, and if the audience laugh, don’t blame me. Come on, Meg.’

Then things went smoothly, for Don Pedro defied the world in a speech of two pages without a single break; Hagar, the witch, chanted an awful incantation over her kettleful of simmering toads, with weird effect; Roderigo rent his chains asunder manfully, and Hugo died in agonies of remorse and arsenic, with a wild ‘Ha! ha!’

‘It’s the best we’ve had yet,’ said Meg, as the dead villain sat up and rubbed his elbows.

‘I don’t see how you can write and act such splendid things, Jo. You’re a regular Shakespeare!’ exclaimed Beth, who firmly believed that her sisters were gifted with wonderful genius in all things.

‘Not quite,’ replied Jo modestly. ‘I do think “ The Witch’s Curse, an Operatic Tragedy”, is rather a nice thing; but I’d like to try Macbeth, if we only had a trap-door for Banquo. I always wanted to do the killing part. “Is that a dagger I see before me?”’ muttered Jo, rolling her eyes and clutching at the air, as she had seen a famous tragedian do.

‘No, it’s the toasting fork, with mother’s shoe on it instead of the bread. Beth’s stage-struck!’ cried Meg, and the rehearsal ended in a general burst of laughter.

‘Glad to find you so merry, my girls,’ said a cheery voice at the door, and actors and audience turned to welcome a tall, motherly lady, with a ‘can-I-help-you’ look about her which was truly delightful. She was not elegantly dressed, but a noble-looking woman, and the girls thought the grey cloak and unfashionable bonnet covered the most splendid mother in the world.

‘Well, dearies, how have you got on today? There was so much to do, getting the boxes ready to go tomorrow, that I didn’t come home to dinner. Has anyone called, Beth? How is your cold, Meg? Jo, you look tired to death. Come and kiss me, baby.’

While making these maternal inquiries, Mrs March got her wet things off, her warm slippers on, and sitting down in the easy-chair, drew Amy to her lap, preparing to enjoy the happiest hour of her busy day. The girls flew about, trying to make things comfortable, each in her own way. Meg arranged the tea-table; Jo brought wood and set chairs, dropping, overturning, and clattering everything she touched; Beth trotted to and fro between parlour and kitchen, quiet and busy; while Amy gave directions to everyone, as she sat with her hands folded.

As they gathered about the table, Mrs March said, with a particularly happy face, ‘I’ve got a treat for you after supper.’

A quick, bright smile went round like a streak of sunshine. Beth clapped her hands, regardless of the biscuit she held, and Jo tossed up her napkin, crying, ‘A letter! a letter! Three cheers for Father!’

‘Yes, a nice long letter. He is well, and thinks he shall get through the cold season better than we feared. He sends all sorts of loving wishes for Christmas, and an especial message to you girls,’ said Mrs March, patting her pocket as if she had got a treasure there.

‘Hurry and get done! Don’t stop to quirk your little finger, and simper over your plate, Amy,’ cried Jo, choking in her tea, and dropping her bread, butter side down, on the carpet in her haste to get at the treat.

Beth ate no more, but crept away, to sit in her shadowy corner and brood over the delight to come, till the others were ready.

‘I think it was so splendid of Father to go as chaplain when he was too old to be drafted, and not strong enough for a soldier,’ said Meg, warmly.

‘Don’t I wish I could go as a drummer, a vivan – what’s its name? or a nurse, so I could be near him and help him,’ exclaimed Jo, with a groan.

‘It must be very disagreeable to sleep in a tent, and eat all sorts of bad-tasting things, and drink out of a tin mug,’ sighed Amy.

‘When will he come home, Marmee?’ asked Beth, with a little quiver in her voice.

‘Not for many months, dear, unless he is sick. He will stay and do his work faithfully as long as he can, and we won’t ask for him back a minute sooner than he can be spared. Now come and hear the letter.’

They all drew to the fire, Mother in the big chair, with Beth at her feet, Meg and Amy perched on either arm of the chair, and Jo leaning on the back, where no one would see any sign of emotion if the letter should happen to be touching. Very few letters were written in those hard times that were not touching, especially those which fathers sent home. In this one little was said of the hardships endured, the dangers faced, or the home-sickness conquered; it was a cheerful, hopeful letter, full of lively descriptions of camp life, marches, and military news; and only at the end did the writer’s heart overflow with fatherly love and longing for the little girls at home.

‘Give them all my dear love and a kiss. Tell them I think of them by day, pray for them by night, and find my best comfort in their affection at all times. A year seems very long to wait before I see them, but remind them that while we wait we may all work, so that these hard days need not be wasted. I know they will remember all I said to them, that they will be loving children to you, will do their duty faithfully, fight their bosom enemies bravely, and conquer themselves so beautifully, that when I come back to them I may be fonder and prouder than ever of my little women.’

Everybody sniffed when they came to that part; Jo wasn’t ashamed of the great tear that dropped off the end of her nose, and Amy never minded the rumpling of her curls as she hid her face on her mother’s shoulder and sobbed out, ‘I am a selfish girl! but I’ll truly try to be better, so he mayn’t be disappointed in me by and by.’

‘We all will!’ cried Meg. ‘I think too much of my looks, and hate to work, but won’t any more, if I can help it.’

‘I’ll try and be what he loves to call me, “a little woman”, and not be rough and wild; but do my duty here instead of wanting to be somewhere else,’ said Jo, thinking that keeping her temper at home was a much harder task than facing a rebel or two down South.

Beth said nothing, but wiped away her tears with the blue army sock, and began to knit with all her might, losing no time in doing the duty that lay nearest her, while she resolved in her quiet little soul to be all that Father hoped to find her when the year brought round the happy coming home.

Mrs March broke the silence that followed Jo’s words, by saying in her cheery voice, ‘Do you remember how you used to play Pilgrim’s Progress when you were little things? Nothing delighted you more than to have me tie my piece-bags on your backs for burdens, give you hats and sticks and rolls of paper, and let you travel through the house from the cellar, which was the City of Destruction, up, up, to the housetop, where you had all the lovely things you could collect to make a Celestial City.’

‘What fun it was, especially going by the lions, fighting Apollyon, and passing through the Valley where the hobgoblins were!’ said Jo.

‘I liked the place where the bundles fell off and tumbled downstairs,’ said Meg.

‘My favourite part was when we came out on the flat roof where our flowers and arbours and pretty things were, and all stood and sang for joy up there in the sunshine,’ said Beth, smiling, as if that pleasant moment had come back to her.

‘I don’t remember much about it, except that I was afraid of the cellar and the dark entry, and always liked the cake and milk we had up at the top. If I wasn’t too old for such things, I’d rather like to play it over again,’ said Amy, who began to talk of renouncing childish things at the mature age of twelve.

‘We never are too old for this, my dear, because it is a play we are playing all the time in one way or another. Our burdens are here, our road is before us, and the longing for goodness and happiness is the guide that leads us through many troubles and mistakes to the peace which is a true Celestial City. Now, my little pilgrims, suppose you begin again, not in play, but in earnest, and see how far on you can get before Father comes home.’

‘Really, Mother? Where are our bundles?’ asked Amy, who was a very literal young lady.

‘Each of you told what your burden was just now, except Beth; I rather think she hasn’t got any,’ said her mother.

‘Yes, I have; mine is dishes and dusters, and envying girls with nice pianos, and being afraid of people.’

Beth’s bundle was such a funny one that everybody wanted to laugh; but nobody did, for it would have hurt her feelings very much.

‘Let us do it,’ said Meg, thoughtfully. ‘It is only another name for trying to be good, and the story may help us; for though we do want to be good, it’s hard work, and we forget, and don’t do our best.’

‘We were in the Slough of Despond tonight, and Mother came and pulled us out as Help did in the book. We ought to have our roll of directions, like Christian. What shall we do about that?’ asked Jo, delighted with the fancy which lent a little romance to the very dull task of doing her duty.

‘Look under your pillows, Christmas morning, and you will find your guide-book,’ replied Mrs March.

They talked over the new plan while old Hannah cleared the table; then out came the four little work-baskets, and the needles flew as the girls made sheets for Aunt March. It was uninteresting sewing, but tonight no one grumbled. They adopted Jo’s plan of dividing the long seams into four parts, and calling the quarters Europe, Asia, Africa, and America, and in that way got on capitally, especially when they talked about the different countries, as they stitched their way through them.

At nine they stopped work, and sang, as usual, before they went to bed. No one but Beth could get much music out of the old piano; but she had a way of softly touching the yellow keys, and making a pleasant accompaniment to the simple songs they sang. Meg had a voice like a flute, and she and her mother led the little choir. Amy chirped like a cricket, and Jo wandered through the airs at her own sweet will, always coming out at the wrong place with a croak or a quaver that spoilt the most pensive tune. They had always done this from the time they could lisp

‘Crinkle, crinkle,’ ittle ‘tar’

and it had become a household custom, for the mother was a born singer. The first sound in the morning was her voice, as she went about the house singing like a lark; and the last sound at night was the same cheery sound, for the girls never grew too old for that familiar lullaby.

Jo was the first to wake in the grey dawn of Christmas morning. No stockings hung at the fireplace, and for a moment she felt as much disappointed as she did long ago, when her little sock fell down because it was so crammed with goodies. Then she remembered her mother’s promise, and, slipping her hand under her pillow, drew out a little crimson-covered book. She knew it very well, for it was that beautiful old story of the best life ever lived, and Jo felt that it was a true guide-book for any pilgrim going the long journey. She woke Meg with a ‘Merry Christmas’, and bade her see what was under her pillow. A green-covered book appeared, with the same picture inside, and a few words written by their mother, which made their one present very precious in their eyes. Presently Beth and Amy woke, to rummage and find their little books also – one, dove-coloured, the other blue; and all sat looking at and talking about them, while the east grew rosy with the coming day.

In spite of her small vanities, Margaret had a sweet and pious nature, which unconsciously influenced her sisters, especially Jo, who loved her very tenderly, and obeyed her because her advice was so gently given.

‘Girls,’ said Meg seriously, looking from the tumbled head beside her to the two little night-capped ones in the room beyond, ‘Mother wants us to read and love and mind these books, and we must begin at once. We used to be faithful about it; but since Father went away, and all this war trouble unsettled us, we have neglected many things. You can do as you please; but I shall keep my book on the table here, and read a little every morning as soon as I wake, for I know it will do me good, and help me through the day.’

Then she opened her new book and began to read. Jo put her arm round her, and, leaning cheek to cheek, read also, with the quiet expression so seldom seen on her restless face.

‘How good Meg is! Come, Amy, let’s do as they do. I’ll help you with the hard words, and they’ll explain things if we don’t understand,’ whispered Beth, very much impressed by the pretty books and her sisters’ example.

‘I’m glad mine is blue,’ said Amy; and then the rooms were very still while the pages were softly turned, and the winter sunshine crept in to touch the bright heads and serious faces with a Christmas greeting.

‘Where is Mother?’ asked Meg, as she and Jo ran down to thank her for their gifts, half an hour later.

‘Goodness only knows. Some poor creeter come a-beggin’, and your ma went straight off to see what was needed. There never was such a woman for givin’ away vittles and drink, clothes, and firin’,’ replied Hannah, who had lived with the family since Meg was born, and was considered by them all more as a friend than a servant.

‘She will be back soon, I think; so fry your cake, and have everything ready,’ said Meg, looking over the presents which were collected in a basket and kept under the sofa, ready to be produced at the proper time. ‘Why, where is Amy’s bottle of cologne?’ she added, as the little flask did not appear.

‘She took it out a minute ago, and went off with it to put a ribbon on it, or some such notion,’ replied Jo, dancing about the room to take the first stiffness off the new army-slippers.

‘How nice my handkerchiefs look, don’t they! Hannah washed and ironed them for me, and I marked them all myself,’ said Beth, looking proudly at the somewhat uneven letters which had cost her such labour.

‘Bless the child! she’s gone and put “Mother” on them instead of “M. March”. How funny!’ cried Jo, taking up one.

‘Isn’t it right? I thought it was better to do it so, because Meg’s initials are “M. M.”, and I don’t want anyone to use these but Marmee,’ said Beth, looking troubled.

‘It’s all right, dear, and a very pretty idea – quite sensible, too, for no one can ever mistake now. It will please her very much, I know,’ said Meg, with a frown for Jo and a smile for Beth.

‘There’s Mother. Hide the basket, quick!’ cried Jo, as a door slammed, and steps sounded in the hall.

Amy came in hastily, and looked rather abashed when she saw her sisters all waiting for her.

‘Where have you been, and what are you hiding behind you?’ asked Meg, surprised to see, by her hood and cloak, that lazy Amy had been out so early.

‘Don’t laugh at me, Jo! I didn’t mean anyone should know till the time came. I only meant to change the little bottle for a big one, and I gave all my money to get it, and I’m truly trying not to be selfish any more.’

As she spoke, Amy showed the handsome flask which replaced the cheap one; and looked so earnest and humble in her little effort to forget herself that Meg hugged her on the spot, and Jo pronounced her ‘a trump’, while Beth ran to the window and picked her finest rose to ornament the stately bottle.

‘You see, I felt ashamed of my present, after reading and talking about being good this morning, so I ran round the corner and changed it the minute I was up; and I’m so glad, for mine is the handsomest now.’

Another bang of the street door sent the basket under the sofa, and the girls to the table, eager for breakfast.

‘Merry Christmas, Marmee! Many of them! Thank you for our books; we read some, and mean to, every day,’ they cried, in chorus.

‘Merry Christmas, little daughters! I’m glad you began at once, and hope you will keep on. But I want to say one word before we sit down. Not far away from here lies a poor woman with a little new-born baby. Six children are huddled into one bed to keep from freezing, for they have no fire. There is nothing to eat over there; and the oldest boy came to tell me they were suffering hunger and cold. My girls, will you give them your breakfast as a Christmas present?’

They were all unusually hungry, having waited nearly an hour, and for a minute no one spoke; only a minute, for Jo exclaimed impetuously:

‘I’m so glad you came before we began!’

‘May I go and help carry the things to the poor little children?’ said Beth, eagerly.

‘I shall take the cream and the muffins,’ added Amy, heroically, giving up the articles she most liked.

Meg was already covering the buckwheats, and piling the bread into one big plate.

‘I thought you’d do it,’ said Mrs March, smiling as if satisfied. ‘You shall all go and help me, and when we come back we will have bread and milk for breakfast, and make it up at dinner-time.’

They were soon ready, and the procession set out. Fortunately it was early, and they went through back streets, so few people saw them, and no one laughed at the queer party.

A poor, bare, miserable room it was, with broken windows, no fire, ragged bed-clothes, a sick mother, wailing baby, and a group of pale, hungry children cuddled under one old quilt, trying to keep warm.

How the big eyes stared and blue lips smiled as the girls went in!

‘Ach, mein Gott! it is good angels come to us!’ said the poor woman, crying for joy.

‘Funny angels in hoods and mittens,’ said Jo, and set them laughing.

In a few minutes it really did seem as if kind spirits had been at work there. Hannah, who had carried wood, made a fire, and stopped up the broken panes with old hats and her own cloak. Mrs March gave the mother tea and gruel, and comforted her with promises of help, while she dressed the little baby as tenderly as if it had been her own. The girls, meantime, spread the table, set the children round the fire, and fed them like so many hungry birds – laughing, talking, and trying to understand the funny broken English.

‘Das ist gut!’ ‘Die Engelkinder!’ cried the poor things, as they ate, and warmed their purple hands at the comfortable blaze.

The girls had never been called angel children before, and thought it very agreeable, especially Jo, who had been considered a ‘Sancho’ ever since she was born. That was a very happy breakfast, though they didn’t get any of it; and when they went away, leaving comfort behind, I think there were not in all the city four merrier people than the hungry little girls who gave away their breakfasts and contented themselves with bread and milk on Christmas morning.

‘That’s loving our neighbour better than ourselves, and I like it,’ said Meg, as they set out their presents, while their mother was upstairs collecting clothes for the poor Hummels.

Not a very splendid show, but there was a great deal of love done up in the few little bundles; and the tall vase of red roses, white chrysanthemums, and trailing vines, which stood in the middle, gave quite an elegant air to the table.

‘She’s coming! Strike up, Beth! Open the door, Amy! Three cheers for Marmee!’ cried Jo, prancing about, while Meg went to conduct Mother to the seat of honour.

Beth played her gayest march, Amy threw open the door, and Meg enacted escort with great dignity. Mrs March was both surprised and touched; and smiled with her eyes full as she examined her presents, and read the little notes which accompanied them. The slippers went on at once, a new handkerchief was slipped into her pocket, well scented with Amy’s cologne, the rose was fastened in her bosom, and the nice gloves were pronounced a ‘perfect fit’.

There was a good deal of laughing and kissing and explaining, in the simple, loving fashion which makes these home festivals so pleasant at the time, so sweet to remember long afterwards, and then all fell to work.

The morning charities and ceremonies took so much time that the rest of the day was devoted to preparations for the evening festivities.

Not rich enough to afford any great outlay for private performances, the girls put their wits to work, and – necessity being the mother of invention – made whatever they needed. Very clever were some of their productions – pasteboard guitars, antique lamps made of old-fashioned butter-boats covered with silver paper, gorgeous robes of old cotton glittering with tin spangle from a pickle factory, and armour covered with the same useful diamond-shaped bits, left in the sheets when the lids of tin preserve-pots were cut out. The furniture was used to being turned topsy-turvy, and the big chamber was the scene of many innocent revels.

No gentlemen were admitted; so Jo played male parts to her heart’s content, and took immense satisfaction in a pair of russet-leather boots given her by a friend. These boots, an old foil, and a slashed doublet once used by an artist for some picture, were Jo’s chief treasures, and appeared on all occasions. The smallness of the company made it necessary for the two principal actors to take several parts apiece; and they certainly deserved some credit for the hard work they did in learning three or four different parts, whisking in and out of various costumes, and managing the stage besides. It was excellent drill for their memories, a harmless amusement, and employed many hours which otherwise would have been idle, lonely, or spent in less profitable society.

On Christmas night, a dozen girls piled on to the bed, which was the dress-circle, and sat before the blue and yellow chintz curtains in a most flattering state of expectancy. There was a good deal of rustling and whispering behind the curtain, a trifle of lamp-smoke, and an occasional giggle from Amy, who was apt to get hysterical in the excitement of the moment. Presently a bell sounded, the curtains flew apart, and the Operatic Tragedy began.

‘A gloomy wood’, according to the one play-bill, was represented by a few shrubs in pots, green baize on the floor, and a cave in the distance. This cave was made with a clothes-horse for a roof, bureaus for walls; and in it was a small furnace in full blast, with a black spot on it, and an old witch bending over it. The stage was dark, and the glow of the furnace had a fine effect, especially as real steam issued from the kettle when the witch took off the cover. A moment was allowed for the first thrill to subside; then Hugo, the villain, stalked in with a clanking sword at his side, a slouched hat, black beard, mysterious cloak, and the boots. After pacing to and fro in much agitation, he struck his forehead, and burst out in a wild strain, singing of his hatred to Roderigo, his love for Zara, and his pleasing resolution to kill the one and win the other. The gruff tones of Hugo’s voice, with an occasional shout when his feelings overcame him, were very impressive, and the audience applauded the moment he paused for breath. Bowing with the air of one accustomed to public praise, he stole to the cavern, and ordered Hagar to come forth with a commanding ‘What ho, minion! I need thee!’

Out came Meg, with grey horse-hair hanging about her face, a red and black robe, a staff, and cabbalistic signs upon her cloak. Hugo demanded a potion to make Zara adore him, and one to destroy Roderigo. Hagar, in a fine dramatic melody, promised both, and proceeded to call up the spirit who would bring the love philtre:

‘Hither, hither, from my home,

Airy sprite, I bid thee come!

Born of roses, fed on dew,

Charms and potions canst thou brew?

‘Bring me here, with elfin speed,

The fragrant philtre which I need;

Make it sweet and swift and strong,

Spirit, answer now my song!’

A soft strain of music sounded, and then at the back of the cave appeared a little figure in cloudy white, with glittering wings, golden hair, and a garland of roses on its head. Waving a wand, it sang:

‘Hither I come,

From my airy home,

Afar in the silver moon.

Take this magic spell,

And use it well,

Or its power will vanish soon!’

And, dropping a small, gilded bottle at the witch’s feet, the spirit vanished. Another chant from Hagar produced another apparition – not a lovely one; for, with a bang, an ugly black imp appeared, and, having croaked a reply, tossed a dark bottle at Hugo, and disappeared with a mocking laugh. Having warbled his thanks and put the potions in his boots, Hugo departed; and Hagar informed the audience that, as he had killed a few of her friends in times past, she has cursed him, and intends to thwart his plans, and be revenged on him. Then the curtain fell, and the audience reposed and ate candy while discussing the merits of the play.

A good deal of hammering went on before the curtain rose again; but when it became evident what a masterpiece of stage-carpentering had been got up, no one murmured at the delay. It was truly superb! A tower rose to the ceiling; half-way up appeared a window, with a lamp burning at it, and behind the white curtain appeared Zara in a lovely blue and silver dress, waiting for Roderigo. He came in gorgeous array, with plumed cap, red cloak, chestnut love-locks, a guitar, and the boots, of course. Kneeling at the foot of the tower, he sang a serenade in melting tones. Zara replied, and, after a musical dialogue, consented to fly. Then came the grand effect of the play. Roderigo produced a rope ladder, with five steps to it, threw up one end, and invited Zara to descend. Timidly she crept from her lattice, put her hand on Roderigo’s shoulder, and was about to leap gracefully down, when, ‘Alas! alas for Zara!’ she forgot her train – it caught in the window, the tower tottered, leant forward, fell with a crash, and buried the unhappy lovers in the ruins!

A universal shriek arose as the russet boots waved wildly from the wreck, and a golden head emerged, exclaiming, ‘I told you so! I told you so!’ With wonderful presence of mind, Don Pedro, the cruel sire, rushed in, dragged out his daughter, with a hasty aside:

‘Don’t laugh! Act as if it was all right!’ – and, ordering Roderigo up, banished him from the kingdom with wrath and scorn. Though decidedly shaken by the fall of the tower upon him, Roderigo defied the old gentleman, and refused to stir. This dauntless example fired Zara: she also defied her sire, and he ordered them both to the deepest dungeons of the castle. A stout little retainer came in with chains, and led them away, looking very much frightened, and evidently forgetting the speech he ought to have made. Act third was the castle hall; and here Hagar appeared, having come to free the lovers and finish Hugo. She hears him coming, and hides; sees him put the potions into two cups of wine, and bid the timid little servant ‘Bear them to the captives in their cells, and tell them I shall come anon.’ The servant takes Hugo aside to tell him something, and Hagar changes the cups for two others which are harmless. Ferdinando, the ‘minion’, carries them away, and Hagar puts back the cup which holds the poison meant for Roderigo. Hugo, getting thirsty after a long warble, drinks it, loses his wits, and, after a good deal of clutching and stamping, falls flat and dies; while Hagar informs him what she has done in a song of exquisite power and melody.

This was a truly thrilling scene, though some persons might have thought that the sudden tumbling down of a quantity of long hair rather marred the effect of the villain’s death. He was called before the curtain, and with great propriety appeared, leading Hagar, whose singing was considered more wonderful than all the rest of the performance put together.

Act fourth displayed the despairing Roderigo on the point of stabbing himself, because he has been told that Zara has deserted him. Just as the dagger is at his heart, a lovely song is sung under his window, informing him that Zara is true, but in danger, and he can save her, if he will. A key is thrown in, which unlocks the door, and in a spasm of rapture he tears off his chains, and rushes away to find and rescue his lady-love.

Act fifth opened with a stormy scene between Zara and Don Pedro. He wishes her to go into a convent, but she won’t hear of it; and, after a touching appeal, is about to faint, when Roderigo dashes in and demands her hand. Don Pedro refuses, because he is not rich. They shout and gesticulate tremendously, but cannot agree, and Roderigo is about to bear away the exhausted Zara, when the timid servant enters with a letter and a bag from Hagar, who has mysteriously disappeared. The latter informs the party that she bequeaths untold wealth to the young pair, and an awful doom to Don Pedro, if he doesn’t make them happy. The bag is opened, and several quarts of tin money shower down upon the stage, till it is quite glorified with the glitter. This entirely softens the ‘stern sire’: he consents without a murmur, all join in a joyful chorus, and the curtain falls upon the lovers kneeling to receive Don Pedro’s blessing in attitudes of the most romantic grace.

Tumultuous applause followed, but received an unexpected check; for the cot-bed, on which the ‘dress-circle’ was built, suddenly shut up, and extinguished the enthusiastic audience. Roderigo and Don Pedro flew to the rescue, and all were taken out unhurt, though many were speechless with laughter. The excitement had hardly subsided, when Hannah appeared, with ‘Mrs March’s compliments, and would the ladies walk down to supper.’

This was a surprise, even to the actors; and, when they saw the table, they looked at one another in rapturous amazement. It was like Marmee to get up a little treat for them; but anything so fine as this was unheard of since the departed days of plenty. There was icecream – actually two dishes of it, pink and white – and cake and fruit and distracting French bonbons, and, in the middle of the table, four great bouquets of hothouse flowers.

It quite took their breath away; and they stared first at the table and then at their mother, who looked as if she enjoyed it immensely.

‘Is it fairies?’ asked Amy.

‘It’s Santa Claus,’ said Beth.

‘Mother did it’; and Meg smiled her sweetest, in spite of her grey beard and white eyebrows.

‘Aunt March had a good fit, and sent the supper,’ cried Jo, with a sudden inspiration.

‘All wrong. Old Mr Laurence sent it,’ replied Mrs March.

‘The Laurence boy’s grandfather! What in the world put such a thing into his head? We don’t know him!’ exclaimed Meg.

‘Hannah told one of his servants about your breakfast party. He is an odd old gentleman, but that pleased him. He knew my father, years ago; and he sent me a polite note this afternoon, saying he hoped I would allow him to express his friendly feeling towards my children by sending them a few trifles in honour of the day. I could not refuse; and so you have a little feast at night to make up for the bread-and-milk breakfast.’

‘That boy put it into his head, I know he did! He’s a capital fellow, and I wish we could get acquainted. He looks as if he’d like to know us; but he’s bashful, and Meg is so prim she won’t let me speak to him when we pass,’ said Jo, as the plates went round, and the ice began to melt out of sight, with ‘Ohs!’ and ‘Ahs!’ of satisfaction.

‘You mean the people who live in the big house next door, don’t you?’ asked one of the girls. ‘My mother knows old Mr Laurence; but says he’s very proud, and doesn’t like to mix with his neighbours. He keeps his grandson shut up, when he isn’t riding or walking with his tutor, and makes him study very hard. We invited him to our party, but he didn’t come. Mother says he’s very nice, though he never speaks to us girls.’

‘Our cat ran away once, and he brought her back, and we talked over the fence, and were getting on capitally – all about cricket, and so on – when he saw Meg coming, and walked off. I mean to know him some day; for he needs fun, I’m sure he does,’ said Jo decidedly.

‘I like his manners, and he looks like a little gentleman; so I’ve no objection to your knowing him, if a proper opportunity comes. He brought the flowers himself; and I should have asked him in, if I had been sure what was going on upstairs. He looked so wistful as he went away, hearing the frolic, and evidently having none of his own.’

‘It’s a mercy you didn’t, Mother!’ laughed Jo, looking at her boots. ‘But we’ll have another play, some time, that he can see. Perhaps he’ll help act; wouldn’t that be jolly?’

‘I never had such a fine bouquet before! How pretty it is!’ And Meg examined her flowers with great interest.

‘They are lovely. But Beth’s roses are sweeter to me,’ said Mrs March, smelling the half-dead posy in her belt.

Beth nestled up to her, and whispered softly, ‘I wish I could send my bunch to Father. I’m afraid he isn’t having such a merry Christmas as we are.’

‘Jo! Jo! where are you?’ cried Meg, at the foot of the garret stairs.

‘Here!’ answered a husky voice from above; and, running up, Meg found her sister eating apples and crying over the Heir of Redclyffe, wrapped up in a comforter on an old three-legged sofa by the sunny window. This was Jo’s favourite refuge; and here she loved to retire with half a dozen russets and a nice book, to enjoy the quiet and the society of a pet rat who lived near by, and didn’t mind her a particle. As Meg appeared, Scrabble whisked into his hole. Jo shook the tears off her cheeks, and waited to hear the news.

‘Such fun! only see! a regular note of invitation from Mrs Gardiner for tomorrow night!’ cried Meg, waving the precious paper, and then proceeding to read it, with girlish delight.

‘“Mrs Gardiner would be happy to see Miss March and Miss Josephine at a little dance on New Year’s Eve.” Marmee is willing we should go; now what shall we wear?’

‘What’s the use of asking that, when you know we shall wear our poplins because we haven’t got anything else?’ answered Jo, with her mouth full.

‘If I only had a silk!’ sighed Meg. ‘Mother says I may when I’m eighteen, perhaps; but two years is an everlasting time to wait.’

‘I’m sure our pops look like silk, and they are nice enough for us. Yours is as good as new, but I forgot the burn and the tear in mine. Whatever shall I do? the burn shows badly and I can’t take any out.’

‘You must sit still all you can, and keep your back out of sight; the front is all right. I shall have a new ribbon for my hair, and Marmee will lend me her little pearl pin, and my new slippers are lovely, and my gloves will do, though they aren’t as nice as I’d like.’

‘Mine are spoilt with lemonade, and I can’t get any new ones, so I shall have to go without,’ said Jo, who never troubled herself much about dress.

‘You must have gloves, or I won’t go,’ cried Meg decidedly, ‘gloves are more important than anything else. I should be so mortified if you didn’t have them.’

‘Then I’ll stay still. I don’t care much for company dancing. It’s no fun to go sailing round. I like to fly about and cut capers.’

‘You can’t ask Mother for new ones, they are so expensive, and you are so careless. She said, when you spoilt the others, that she shouldn’t get you any more this winter. Can’t you make them do?’ asked Meg anxiously.

‘I can hold them crumpled up in my hand, so no one will know how stained they are; that’s all I can do. No, I’ll tell you how we can manage – each wear one good one and carry a bad one; don’t you see?’

‘Your hands are bigger than mine, and you will stretch my glove dreadfully,’ began Meg, whose gloves were a tender point with her.

‘Then I’ll go without. I don’t care what people say!’ cried Jo, taking up her book.

‘You may have it, you may! only don’t stain it, and do behave nicely. Don’t put your hands behind you, or stare, or say “Christopher Columbus!” will you?’

‘Don’t worry about me; I’ll be as prim as I can, and not get into any scrapes, if I can help it. Now go and answer your note, and let me finish this splendid story.’

So Meg went away to ‘accept with thanks’, look over her dress, and sing blithely as she did up her one real lace frill; while Jo finished her story, her four apples, and had a game of romps with Scrabble.

On New Year’s Eve the parlour was deserted, for the two younger girls played dressing-maids, and the two older were absorbed in the all-important business of ‘getting ready for the party’. Simple as the toilets were, there was a great deal of running up and down, laughing and talking, and at one time a strong smell of burnt hair pervaded the house. Meg wanted a few curls about her face, and Jo undertook to pinch the papered locks with a pair of hot tongs.

‘Ought they to smoke like that?’ asked Beth, from her perch on the bed.

‘It’s the dampness drying,’ replied Jo.

‘What a queer smell! it’s like burnt feathers,’ observed Amy, smoothing her own pretty curls with a superior air.

‘There, now I’ll take off the papers and you’ll see a cloud of little ringlets,’ said Jo, putting down the tongs.

She did take off the papers, but no cloud of ringlets appeared, for the hair came with the papers, and the horrified hairdresser laid a row of little scorched bundles on the bureau before her victim.

‘Oh, oh, oh! what have you done? I’m spoilt! I can’t go! My hair, oh, my hair!’ wailed Meg, looking with despair at the uneven frizzle on her forehead.

‘Just my luck; you shouldn’t have asked me to do it; I always spoil everything. I’m so sorry, but the tongs were too hot, and so I’ve made a mess,’ groaned poor Jo, regarding the black pancakes with tears of regret.

‘It isn’t spoilt: just frizzle it, and tie your ribbon so the ends come on your forehead a bit, and it will look like the last fashion. I’ve seen many girls do it so,’ said Amy, consolingly.

‘Serves me right for trying to be fine. I wish I’d let my hair alone,’ cried Meg, petulantly.

‘So do I, it was so smooth and pretty. But it will soon grow out again,’ said Beth, coming to kiss and comfort the shorn sheep.

After various lesser mishaps, Meg was finished at last, and by the united exertions of the family, Jo’s hair was got up and her dress on. They looked very well in their simple suits. Meg in silvery drab, with a blue velvet snood, lace frills, and the pearl pin; Jo in maroon, with a stiff, gentlemanly linen collar and a white chrysanthemum or two for her only ornament. Each put on the one nice light glove, and carried one soiled one, and all pronounced the effect ‘quite easy and fine’. Meg’s high-heeled slippers were very tight, and hurt her, though she would not own it, and Jo’s nineteen hairpins all seemed stuck straight into her head, which was not exactly comfortable; but, dear me, let us be elegant or die!

‘Have a good time, dearies!’ said Mrs March, as the sisters went daintily down the walk. ‘Don’t eat much supper, and come away at eleven, when I send Hannah for you.’ As the gate clashed behind them, a voice cried from a window:

‘Girls, girls! have you both got nice pocket-handkerchiefs?’

‘Yes, yes, spandy nice, and Meg has cologne on hers,’ cried Jo, adding with a laugh, as they went on, ‘I do believe Marmee would ask that if we were all running away from an earthquake.’

‘It is one of her aristocratic tastes, and quite proper, for a real lady is always known by neat boots, gloves, and handkerchief,’ replied Meg, who had a good many little ‘aristocratic tastes’ of her own.

‘Now don’t forget to keep the bad breadth out of sight, Jo. Is my sash right? and does my hair look very bad?’ said Meg, as she turned from the glass in Mrs Gardiner’s dressing room, after a prolonged prink.

‘I know I shall forget. If you see me doing anything wrong just remind me by a wink, will you?’ returned Jo, giving her collar a twitch and her hair a hasty brush.

‘No, winking isn’t lady-like; I’ll lift my eyebrows if anything is wrong, and nod if you are all right. Now hold your shoulders straight and take short steps, and don’t shake hands if you are introduced to anyone: it isn’t the thing.’

‘How do you learn all the proper ways? I never can. Isn’t that music gay?’

Down they went, feeling a trifle timid, for they seldom went to parties, and, informal as this little gathering was, it was an event to them. Mrs Gardiner, a stately old lady, greeted them kindly, and handed them over to the eldest of her six daughters. Meg knew Sallie, and was at her ease very soon; but Jo, who didn’t care much for girls or girlish gossip, stood about, with her back carefully against the wall and felt as much out of place as a colt in a flower-garden. Half a dozen jovial lads were talking about skates in another part of the room, and she longed to go and join them, for skating was one of the joys of her life. She telegraphed her wish to Meg, but the eyebrows went up so alarmingly that she dared not stir. No one came to talk to her, and one by one the group near her dwindled away, till she was left alone. She could not roam about and amuse herself, for the burnt breadth would show, so she stared at people rather forlornly till the dancing began. Meg was asked at once, and the tight slippers tripped about so briskly that none would have guessed the pain their wearer suffered smilingly. Jo saw a big redheaded youth approaching her corner, and fearing he meant to engage her, she slipped into a curtained recess, intending to peep and enjoy herself in peace. Unfortunately, another bashful person had chosen the same refuge; for, as the curtain fell behind her, she found herself face to face with the ‘Laurence boy’.

‘Dear me, I didn’t know anyone was here!’ stammered Jo, preparing to back out as speedily as she had bounced in.

But the boy laughed, and said pleasantly, though he looked a little startled:

‘Don’t mind me; stay if you like.’

‘Shan’t I disturb you?’

‘Not a bit; I only came here because I don’t know many people, and I felt rather strange at first, you know.’

‘So did I. Don’t go away, please, unless you’d rather.’

The boy sat down again and looked at his pumps, till Jo said, trying to be polite and easy:

‘I think I’ve had the pleasure of seeing you before; you live near us, don’t you?’

‘Next door’; and he looked up and laughed outright, for Jo’s prim manner was rather funny, when he remembered how they had chatted about cricket when he brought the cat home.

That put Jo at her ease; and she laughed too, as she said, in her heartiest way:

‘We did have such a good time over your nice Christmas present.’

‘Grandpa sent it.’

‘But you put it into his head, didn’t you, now?’

‘How is your cat, Miss March?’ asked the boy, trying to look sober, while his black eyes shone with fun.

‘Nicely, thank you, Mr Laurence; but I am not Miss March, I’m only Jo,’ returned the young lady.

‘I’m not Mr Laurence, I’m only Laurie.’

‘Laurie Laurence – what an odd name!’

‘My first name is Theodore, but I don’t like it, for the fellows called me Dora, so I made them say Laurie instead.’

‘I hate my name, too – so sentimental! I wish everyone would say Jo, instead of Josephine. How did you make the boys stop calling you Dora?’

‘I thrashed ’em.’

‘I can’t thrash Aunt March, so I suppose I shall have to bear it’; and Jo resigned herself with a sigh.

‘Do you like parties?’ she asked in a moment.

‘Sometimes; you see I’ve been abroad a good many years, and haven’t been in company enough yet to know how you do things here.’

‘Abroad!’ cried Jo. ‘Oh, tell me about it! I love dearly to hear people describe their travels.’

Laurie didn’t seem to know where to begin; but Jo’s eager questions soon set him going, and he told her how he had been at school in Vevey, where the boys never wore hats, and had a fleet of boats on the lake, and for holiday fun went on walking trips about Switzerland with their teachers.

‘Don’t I wish I’d been there!’ cried Jo. ‘Did you go to Paris?’

‘We spent last winter there.’

‘Can you talk French?’

‘We were not allowed to speak anything else at Vevey.’

‘Do say some! I can read it, but can’t pronounce.’

‘Quel nom a cette jeune demoiselle en les pantoufles jolies?’ said Laurie, good-naturedly.

‘How nicely you do it! Let me see – you said, “Who is the young lady in the pretty slippers,” didn’t you?’

‘Oui, mademoiselle.’

‘It’s my sister Margaret, and you knew it was! Do you think she is pretty?’

‘Yes; she makes me think of the German girls, she looks so fresh and quiet.’

Jo quite glowed with pleasure at this boyish praise of her sister, and stored it up to repeat to Meg. Both peeped and criticized and chatted, till they felt like old acquaintances. Laurie’s bashfulness soon wore off; for Jo’s gentlemanly demeanour amused and set him at his ease, and Jo was her merry self again, because her dress was forgotten, and nobody lifted their eyebrows at her. She liked the ‘Laurence boy’ better than ever, and took several good looks at him, so that she might describe him to the girls; for they had no brothers, very few male cousins, and boys were almost unknown creatures to them.

‘Curly black hair; brown skin; big, black eyes; handsome nose; fine teeth; small hands and feet; taller than I am; very polite for a boy, and altogether jolly. Wonder how old he is?’

It was on the tip of Jo’s tongue to ask; but she checked herself in time, and with unusual tact, tried to find out in a roundabout way.

‘I suppose you are going to college soon? I see you pegging away at your books – no, I mean studying hard’; and Jo blushed at the dreadful ‘pegging’ which had escaped her.

Laurie smiled, but didn’t seem shocked, and answered, with a shrug:

‘Not for a year or two; I won’t go before seventeen, anyway.’

‘Aren’t you but fifteen?’ asked Jo, looking at the tall lad, whom she had imagined seventeen already.

‘Sixteen, next month.’

‘How I wish I was going to college! You don’t look as if you liked it.’

‘I hate it! Nothing but grinding or skylarking. And I don’t like the way fellows do either in this country.’

‘What do you like?’

‘To live in Italy, and to enjoy myself in my own way.’

Jo wanted very much to ask what his own way was: but his black brows looked rather threatening as he knit them; so she changed the subject by saying, as her foot kept time, ‘That’s a splendid polka in the next room. Why don’t you go and try it?’

‘If you will come too,’ he answered, with a gallant little bow.

‘I can’t; for I told Meg I wouldn’t, because –’ There Jo stopped, and looked undecided whether to tell or to laugh.

‘Because what?’ asked Laurie, curiously.

‘You won’t tell?’

‘Never!’

‘Well, I have a bad trick of standing before the fire, and so I burn my frocks, and I scorched this one; and though it’s nicely mended, it shows, and Meg told me to keep still, so no one would see it. You may laugh, if you want to; it is funny, I know.’

But Laurie didn’t laugh; he only looked down a minute, and the expression of his face puzzled Jo, when he said very gently: ‘Never mind that. I’ll tell you how we can manage: there’s a long hall out there, and we can dance grandly, and no one will see us. Please come.’

Jo thanked him, and gladly went, wishing she had two neat gloves, when she saw the nice, pearl-coloured ones her partner put on. The hall was empty, and they had a grand polka, for Laurie danced well, and taught her the German step, which delighted Jo, being full of swing and spring.

When the music stopped, they sat down on the stairs to get their breath, and Laurie was in the midst of an account of a students’ festival at Heidelberg, when Meg appeared in search of her sister. She beckoned, and Jo reluctantly followed her into a side room, where she found her on a sofa, holding her foot, and looking pale.

‘I’ve sprained my ankle. That stupid high heel turned, and gave me a sad wrench. It aches so I can hardly stand, and I don’t know how I’m ever going to get home,’ she said, rocking to and fro in pain.

‘I knew you’d hurt your feet with those silly shoes. I’m sorry. But I don’t see what you can do, except get a carriage, or stay here all night,’ answered Jo, softly rubbing the poor ankle as she spoke.

‘I can’t have a carriage, without its costing ever so much. I daresay I can’t get one at all; for most people come in their own, and it’s a long way to the stable, and no one to send.’

‘I’ll go.’

‘No, indeed! It’s past nine, and dark as Egypt. I can’t stop here, for the house is full. Sallie has some girls staying with her. I’ll rest till Hannah comes, and then do the best I can.’

‘I’ll ask Laurie; he will go,’ said Jo, looking relieved as the idea occurred to her.

‘Mercy, no! Don’t ask or tell anyone. Get me my rubbers, and put these slippers with our things. As soon as supper is over, watch for Hannah, and tell me the minute she comes.’

‘They are going out to supper now. I’ll stay with you; I’d rather.’

‘No, dear, run along, and bring me some coffee. I’m so tired, I can’t stir!’

So Meg reclined, with rubbers well hidden, and Jo went blundering away to the dining room, which she found after going into a china-closet, and opening the door of a room where old Mr Gardiner was taking a little private refreshment. Making a dart at the table, she secured the coffee, which she immediately spilt, making the front of her dress as bad as the back.

‘Oh, dear, what a blunderbuss I am!’ exclaimed Jo, finishing Meg’s glove by scrubbing her gown with it.

‘Can I help you?’ said a friendly voice; and there was Laurie, with a full cup in one hand, and a plate of ice in the other.

‘I was trying to get something for Meg, who is very tired, and someone shook me; and here I am, in a nice state,’ answered Jo, glancing dismally from the stained skirt to the coffee-coloured glove.

‘Too bad! I was looking for someone to give this to. May I take it to your sister?’

‘Oh, thank you! I’ll show you where she is. I don’t offer to take it myself, for I should only get into another scrape if I did.’

Jo led the way; and, as if used to waiting on ladies, Laurie drew up a little table, brought a second instalment of coffee and ice for Jo, and was so obliging that even particular Meg pronounced him a ‘nice boy’. They had a merry time over the bonbons and mottoes, and were in the midst of a quiet game of ‘Buzz’, with two or three other young people who had strayed in, when Hannah appeared. Meg forgot her foot, and rose so quickly that she was forced to catch hold of Jo, with an exclamation of pain.

‘Hush! Don’t say anything,’ she whispered, adding aloud, ‘It’s nothing. I turned my foot a little, that’s all’; and limped upstairs to put her things on.

Hannah scolded, Meg cried, and Jo was at her wit’s end, till she decided to take things into her own hands. Slipping out, she ran down, and, finding a servant, asked if he could get her a carriage. It happened to be a hired waiter, who knew nothing about the neighbourhood; and Jo was looking round for help, when Laurie, who had heard what she said, came up, and offered his grandfather’s carriage, which had just come for him, he said.

‘It’s so early! You can’t mean to go yet?’ began Jo, looking relieved, but hesitating to accept the offer.

‘I always go early – I do, truly! Please let me take you home. It’s all on my way, you know, and it rains, they say.’

That settled it; and, telling him of Meg’s mishap, Jo gratefully accepted, and rushed up to bring down the rest of the party. Hannah hated rain as much as a cat does; so she made no trouble, and they rolled away in the luxurious close carriage, feeling very festive and elegant. Laurie went on the box; so Meg could keep her foot up, and the girls talked over their party in freedom.

‘I had a capital time. Did you?’ asked Jo, rumpling up her hair, and making herself comfortable.

‘Yes, till I hurt myself. Sallie’s friend, Annie Moffat, took a fancy to me, and asked me to come and spend a week with her when Sallie does. She is going in the spring, when the opera comes; and it will be perfectly splendid, if Mother only lets me go,’ answered Meg, cheering up at the thought.

‘I saw you with the red-headed man I ran away from. Was he nice?’

‘Oh, very! His hair is auburn, not red; and he was very polite, and I had a delicious redowa with him.’

‘He looked like a grasshopper in a fit when he did the new step. Laurie and I couldn’t help laughing. Did you hear us?’

‘No; but it was very rude. What were you about all that time, hidden away there?’

Jo told her adventures, and, by the time she had finished, they were at home. With many thanks, they said ‘Good night’, and crept in, hoping to disturb no one; but the instant their door creaked, two little night-caps bobbed up, and two sleepy but eager voices cried out:

‘Tell about the party! tell about the party!’

With what Meg called ‘a great want of manners’, Jo had saved some bonbons for the little girls; and they soon subsided, after hearing the most thrilling events of the evening.

‘I declare, it really seems like being a fine young lady to come home from the party in a carriage, and sit in my dressing-gown with a maid to wait on me,’ said Meg, as Jo bound up her foot with arnica, and brushed her hair.

‘I don’t believe fine young ladies enjoy themselves a bit more than we do, in spite of our burnt hair, old gowns, one glove apiece, and tight slippers that sprain our ankles when we are silly enough to wear them.’ And I think Jo was quite right.

‘Oh, dear, how hard it does seem to take up our packs and jog on,’ sighed Meg, the morning after the party; for, now the holidays were over, the week of merry-making did not fit her for going on easily with the task she never liked.

‘I wish it was Christmas or New Year all the time; wouldn’t it be fun?’ answered Jo, yawning dismally.

‘We shouldn’t enjoy ourselves half so much as we do now. But it does seem so nice to have little suppers and bouquets, and go to parties, and drive home, and read and rest, and not work. It’s like other people, you know, and I always envy girls who do such things; I’m so fond of luxury,’ said Meg, trying to decide which of two shabby gowns was the least shabby.

‘Well, we can’t have it, so don’t let us grumble, but shoulder our bundles and trudge along as cheerfully as Marmee does. I’m sure Aunt March is a regular Old Man of the Sea to me, but I suppose when I’ve learnt to carry her without complaining, she will tumble off, or get so light that I shan’t mind her.’

This idea tickled Jo’s fancy, and put her in good spirits; but Meg didn’t brighten, for her burden, consisting of four spoilt children, seemed heavier than ever. She hadn’t heart enough even to make herself pretty, as usual, by putting on a blue neck-ribbon, and dressing her hair in the most becoming way.

‘Where’s the use of looking nice, when no one sees me but those cross midgets, and no one cares whether I’m pretty or not?’ she muttered, shutting her drawer with a jerk. ‘I shall have to toil and moil all my days, with only little bits of fun now and then, and get old and ugly and sour, because I’m poor, and can’t enjoy my life as other girls do. It’s a shame!’

So Meg went down, wearing an injured look, and wasn’t at all agreeable at breakfast-time. Everyone seemed rather out of sorts, and inclined to croak. Beth had a headache, and lay on the sofa, trying to comfort herself with the cat and three kittens; Amy was fretting because her lessons were not learned, and she couldn’t find her rubbers; Jo would whistle and make a great racket getting ready; Mrs March was very busy trying to finish a letter which must go at once; and Hannah had the grumps, for being up late didn’t suit her.

‘There never was such a cross family!’ cried Jo, losing her temper when she had upset an inkstand, broken both bootlacings, and sat down upon her hat.

‘You’re the crossest person in it!’ returned Amy, washing out the sum, that was all wrong, with the tears that had fallen on her slate.

‘Beth, if you don’t keep these horrid cats down in the cellar I’ll have them drowned,’ exclaimed Meg, angrily, as she tried to get rid of the kitten, which had scrambled up her back, and stuck like a burr just out of reach.

Jo laughed, Meg scolded, Beth implored, and Amy wailed, because she couldn’t remember how much nine times twelve was.

‘Girls, girls, do be quiet one minute! I must get this off by the early mail, and you drive me distracted with your worry,’ cried Mrs March, crossing out the third spoilt sentence in her letter.

There was a momentary lull, broken by Hannah, who stalked in, laid two hot turnovers on the table, and stalked out again. These turnovers were an institution; and the girls called them ‘muffs’, for they had no others, and found the hot pies very comforting to their hands on cold mornings. Hannah never forgot to make them, no matter how busy or grumpy she might be, for the walk was long and bleak; the poor things got no other lunch, and were seldom home before two.

‘Cuddle your cats, and get over your headache, Bethy. Goodbye, Marmee; we are a set of rascals this morning, but we’ll come home regular angels. Now then, Meg!’ and Jo tramped away, feeling that the pilgrims were not setting out as they ought to do.

They always looked back before turning the corner, for their mother was always at the window, to nod and smile, and wave her hand to them. Somehow it seemed as if they couldn’t have got through the day without that; for, whatever their mood might be, the last glimpse of that motherly face was sure to affect them like sunshine.

‘If Marmee shook her fist instead of kissing her hand to us, it would serve us right, for more ungrateful wretches than we are were never seen,’ cried Jo, taking a remorseful satisfaction in the snowy walk and bitter wind.

‘Don’t use such dreadful expressions,’ said Meg, from the depths of the veil in which she had shrouded herself like a nun sick of the world.

‘I like good strong words that mean something,’ replied Jo, catching her hat as it took a leap off her head, preparatory to flying away altogether.

‘Call yourself any names you like; but I am neither a rascal nor a wretch, and I don’t choose to be called so.’

‘You’re a blighted being, and decidedly cross today, because you can’t sit in the lap of luxury all the time. Poor dear, just wait till I make my fortune, and you shall revel in carriages and icecream and high heeled slippers and posies and red-headed boys to dance with.’

‘How ridiculous you are, Jo!’ but Meg laughed at the nonsense, and felt better in spite of herself.

‘Lucky for you I am; for if I put on crushed airs, and tried to be dismal, as you do, we should be in a nice state. Thank goodness, I can always find something funny to keep me up. Don’t croak any more but come home jolly, there’s a dear.’

Jo gave her sister an encouraging pat on the shoulder as they parted for the day, each going a different way, each hugging her little warm turnover, and each trying to be cheerful in spite of wintry weather, hard work, and the unsatisfied desires of pleasure-loving youth.

When Mr March lost his property in trying to help an unfortunate friend, the two oldest girls begged to be allowed to do something towards their own support, at least. Believing that they could not begin too early to cultivate energy, industry, and independence, their parents consented, and both fell to work with the hearty goodwill which, in spite of all obstacles, is sure to succeed at last. Margaret found a place as nursery governess, and felt rich with her small salary. As she said, she was ‘fond of luxury’, and her chief trouble was poverty. She found it harder to bear than the others, because she could remember a time when home was beautiful, life full of ease and pleasure, and want of any kind unknown. She tried not to be envious or discontented but it was very natural that the young girl should long for pretty things, gay friends, accomplishments, and a happy life. At the Kings’ she daily saw all she wanted, for the children’s older sisters were just out, and Meg caught frequent glimpses of dainty party-dresses and bouquets, heard lively gossip about theatres, concerts, sleighing parties, and merry-makings of all kinds, and saw money lavished on trifles which would have been so precious to her. Poor Meg seldom complained, but a sense of injustice made her feel bitter towards everyone sometimes, for she had not yet learned to know how rich she was in the blessings which alone can make life happy.

Jo happened to suit Aunt March, who was lame, and needed an active person to wait upon her. The childless old lady had offered to adopt one of the girls when the troubles came, and was much offended because her offer was declined. Other friends told the Marches that they had lost all chance of being remembered in the rich old lady’s will; but the unworldly Marches only said:

‘We can’t give up our girls for a dozen fortunes. Rich or poor, we will keep together and be happy in one another.’

The old lady wouldn’t speak to them for a time, but, happening to meet Jo at a friend’s, something in her comical face and blunt manners struck the old lady’s fancy, and she proposed to take her for a companion. This did not suit Jo at all; but she accepted the place since nothing better appeared, and, to everyone’s surprise, got on remarkably well with her irascible relative. There was an occasional tempest, and once Jo had marched home, declaring she couldn’t bear it any longer; but Aunt March always cleared up quickly, and sent for her back again with such urgency that she could not refuse, for in her heart she rather liked the peppery old lady.

I suspect that the real attraction was a large library of fine books, which was left to dust and spiders since Uncle March died. Jo remembered the kind old gentleman, who used to let her build railroads and bridges with his big dictionaries, tell her stories about the queer pictures in his Latin books, and buy her cards of gingerbread whenever he met her in the street. The dim, dusty room, with the busts staring down from the tall bookcases, the cosy chairs, the globes, and, best of all, the wilderness of books, in which she could wander where she liked, made the library a region of bliss to her. The moment Aunt March took her nap or was busy with company Jo hurried to this quiet place, and curling herself up in the easy-chair, devoured poetry, romance, history, travels, and pictures, like a regular book-worm. But, like all happiness, it did not last long; for as sure as she had just reached the heart of the story, the sweetest verse of the song, or the most perilous adventure of her traveller, a shrill voice called, ‘Josy-phine! Josy-phine!’ and she had to leave her paradise to wind yarn, wash the poodle, or read Belsham’s Essays by the hour together.

Jo’s ambition was to do something very splendid; what it was she had no idea, as yet, but left it for time to tell her; and, meanwhile, found her greatest affliction in the fact that she couldn’t read, run, and ride as much as she liked. A quick temper, sharp tongue, and restless spirit were always getting her into scrapes, and her life was a series of ups and downs, which were both comic and pathetic. But the training she received at Aunt March’s was just what she needed; and the thought that she was doing something to support herself made her happy, in spite of the perpetual ‘Josy-phine!’

Beth was too bashful to go to school; it had been tried, but she suffered so much that it was given up, and she did her lessons at home with her father. Even when he went away, and her mother was called to devote her skill and energy to Soldiers’ Aid Societies, Beth went faithfully on by herself, and did the best she could. She was a housewifely little creature, and helped Hannah keep home neat and comfortable for the workers, never thinking of any reward but to be loved. Long, quiet days she spent, not lonely nor idle, for her little world was peopled with imaginary friends, and she was by nature a busy bee. There were six dolls to be taken up and dressed every morning, for Beth was a child still, and loved her pets as well as ever. Not one whole or handsome one among them; all were outcasts till Beth took them in; for, when her sisters outgrew these idols, they passed to her, because Amy would have nothing old or ugly. Beth cherished them all the more tenderly for that very reason, and set up a hospital for infirm dolls. No pins were ever stuck into their cotton vitals; no harsh words or blows were ever given them; no neglect ever saddened the heart of the most repulsive: but all were fed and clothed, nursed and caressed, with an affection which never failed.

One forlorn fragment of dollanity had belonged to Jo; and, having led a tempestuous life, was left a wreck in the ragbag, from which dreary poor-house it was rescued by Beth, and taken to her refuge. Having no top to its head, she tied on a neat little cap, and, as both arms and legs were gone, she hid these deficiencies by folding it in a blanket, and devoting her best bed to this chronic invalid. If anyone had known the care lavished on that dolly, I think it would have touched their hearts, even while they laughed. She brought it bits of bouquets; she read to it, took it out to breathe the air, hidden under her coat; she sang it lullabies, and never went to bed without kissing its dirty face, and whispering tenderly, ‘I hope you’ll have a good night, my poor dear.’

Beth had her troubles as well as the others; and not being an angel, but a very human little girl, she often ‘wept a little weep’, as Jo said, because she couldn’t take music lessons and have a fine piano. She loved music so dearly, tried so hard to learn, and practised away so patiently at the jingling old instrument, that it did seem as if someone (not to hint Aunt March) ought to help her. Nobody did, however, and nobody saw Beth wipe the tears off the yellow keys, that wouldn’t keep in tune, when she was all alone. She sang like a little lark about her work, never was too tired to play for Marmee and the girls, and day after day said hopefully to herself, ‘I know I’ll get my music some time, if I’m good.’

There are many Beths in the world, shy and quiet, sitting in corners till needed, and living for others so cheerfully that no one sees the sacrifices till the little cricket on the hearth stops chirping, and the sweet, sunshiny presence vanishes, leaving silence and shadow behind.

If anybody had asked Amy what the greatest trial of her life was, she would have answered at once, ‘My nose’. When she was a baby, Jo had accidentally dropped her into the coal-hod, and Amy insisted that the fall had ruined her nose for ever. It was not big, nor red, like poor ‘Petrea’s’; it was only rather flat, and all the pinching in the world could not give it an aristocratic point. No one minded it but herself, and it was doing its best to grow, but Amy felt deeply the want of a Grecian nose, and drew whole sheets of handsome ones to console herself.

‘Little Raphael’, as her sisters called her, had a decided talent for drawing, and was never so happy as when copying flowers, designing fairies, or illustrating stories with queer specimens of art. Her teachers complained that, instead of doing her sums, she covered her slate with animals; the blank pages of her atlas were used to copy maps on; and caricatures of the most ludicrous description came fluttering out of all her books at unlucky moments. She got through her lessons as well as she could, and managed to escape reprimands by being a model of deportment. She was a great favourite with her mates, being good-tempered and possessing the happy art of pleasing without effort. Her little airs and graces were much admired, so were her accomplishments; for beside her drawing, she could play twelve tunes, crochet, and read French without mispronouncing more than two-thirds of the words. She had a plaintive way of saying ‘When Papa was rich we did so-and-so,’ which was very touching; and her long words were considered ‘perfectly elegant’ by the girls.

Amy was in a fair way to be spoilt; for everyone petted her, and her small vanities and selfishness were growing nicely. One thing, however, rather quenched the vanities; she had to wear her cousin’s clothes. Now Florence’s mamma hadn’t a particle of taste, and Amy suffered deeply at having to wear a red instead of a blue bonnet, unbecoming gowns, and fussy aprons that did not fit. Everything was good, well made, and little worn; but Amy’s artistic eyes were much afflicted, especially this winter, when her school dress was a dull purple, with yellow dots, and no trimming.

‘My only comfort,’ she said to Meg, with tears in her eyes, ‘is that Mother don’t take tucks in my dresses whenever I’m naughty, as Maria Park’s mother does. My dear, it’s really dreadful; for sometimes she is so bad, her frock is up to her knees, and she can’t come to school. When I think of this deggerredation, I feel that I can bear even my flat nose and purple gown, with yellow sky-rockets on it.’

Meg was Amy’s confidante and monitor, and, by some strange attraction of opposites, Jo was gentle Beth’s. To Jo alone did the shy child tell her thoughts; and over her big harum-scarum sister Beth unconsciously exercised more influence than anyone in the family. The two elder girls were a great deal to one another, but each took one of the younger into her keeping, and watched over her in her own way; ‘playing mother’ they called it, and put their sisters in the places of discarded dolls, with the maternal instincts of little women.

‘Has anybody got anything to tell? It’s been such a dismal day I’m really dying for some amusement,’ said Meg, as they sat sewing together that evening.

‘I had a queer time with aunt today, and, as I got the best of it, I’ll tell you about it,’ began Jo, who dearly loved to tell stories. ‘I was reading that everlasting Belsham, and droning away as I always do, for aunt soon drops off, and then I take out some nice book, and read like fury till she wakes up. I actually made myself sleepy; and, before she began to nod, I gave such a gape that she asked me what I meant by opening my mouth wide enough to take the whole book in at once.

‘“I wish I could and be done with it,” said I, trying not to be saucy.

‘Then she gave me a long lecture on my sins, and told me to sit and think them over while she just “lost” herself for a moment. She never finds herself very soon; so the minute her cap began to bob, like a top-heavy dahlia, I whipped the Vicar of Wakefield out of my pocket, and read away, with one eye on him, and one on aunt. I’d just got to where they all tumbled into the water, when I forgot, and laughed out loud. Aunt woke up; and, being more good-natured after her nap, told me to read a bit, and show what frivolous work I preferred to the worthy and instructive Belsham. I did my very best, and she liked it, though she only said:

‘“I don’t understand what it’s all about. Go back and begin it, child.”

‘Back I went, and made the Primroses as interesting as ever I could. Once I was wicked enough to stop in a thrilling place, and say meekly, “I’m afraid it tires you, ma’am; shan’t I stop now?”

‘She caught up her knitting, which had dropped out of her hands, gave me a sharp look through her specs, and said, in her short way:

‘“Finish the chapter, and don’t be impertinent, miss.”’

‘Did she own she liked it?’ asked Meg.

‘Oh, bless you, no! but she let old Belsham rest; and, when I ran back after my gloves this afternoon, there she was, so hard at the Vicar that she didn’t hear me laugh as I danced a jig in the hall, because of the good time coming. What a pleasant life she might have, if she only chose. I don’t envy her much, in spite of her money, for after all, rich people have about as many worries as poor ones, I think,’ added Jo.

‘That reminds me,’ said Meg, ‘that I’ve got something to tell. It isn’t funny, like Jo’s story, but I thought about it a good deal as I came home. At the Kings’ today I found everybody in a flurry, and one of the children said that her oldest brother had done something dreadful, and papa had sent him away. I heard Mrs King crying and Mr King talking very loud, and Grace and Ellen turned away their faces when they passed me, so I shouldn’t see how red their eyes were. I didn’t ask any questions, of course; but I felt so sorry for them, and was rather glad I hadn’t any wild brothers to do wicked things and disgrace the family.’

‘I think being disgraced in school is a great deal tryinger than anything bad boys can do,’ said Amy, shaking her head, as if her experience of life had been a deep one. ‘Susie Perkins came to school today with a lovely red carnelian ring; I wanted it dreadfully, and wished I was her with all my might. Well, she drew a picture of Mr Davis, with a monstrous nose and a hump, and the words, “Young ladies, my eye is upon you!” coming out of his mouth in a balloon thing. We were laughing over it, when all of a sudden his eye was on us, and he ordered Susie to bring up her slate. She was parry-lized with fright, but she went, and oh, what do you think he did? He took her by the ear – the ear! just fancy how horrid! – and led her to the recitation platform, and made her stand there half an hour, holding that slate so everyone could see it.’

‘Didn’t the girls laugh at the picture?’ asked Jo, who relished the scrape.

‘Laugh! Not one! They sat as still as mice; and Susie cried quarts, I know she did. I didn’t envy her then; for I felt that millions of carnelian rings wouldn’t have made me happy after that. I never, never should have got over such an agonizing mortification.’ And Amy went on with her work, in the proud consciousness of virtue, and the successful utterance of two long words in a breath.

‘I saw something that I liked this morning, and I meant to tell it at dinner, but I forgot,’ said Beth, putting Jo’s topsy-turvy basket in order as she talked. ‘When I went to get some oysters for Hannah, Mr Laurence was in the fish-shop; but he didn’t see me, for I kept behind a barrel, and he was busy with Mr Cutter, the fish-man. A poor woman came in, with a pail and a mop, and asked Mr Cutter if he would let her do some scrubbing for a bit of fish, because she hadn’t any dinner for her children, and had been disappointed of a day’s work. Mr Cutter was in a hurry, and said “No,” rather crossly; so she was going away, looking hungry and sorry, when Mr Laurence hooked up a big fish with the crooked end of his cane, and held it out to her. She was so glad and surprised, she took it right in her arms, and thanked him over and over. He told her to “go along and cook it”, and she hurried off, so happy! Wasn’t it good of him? Oh, she did look so funny, hugging the big, slippery fish, and hoping Mr Laurence’s bed in heaven would be “aisy”.’

When they had laughed at Beth’s story, they asked their mother for one; and, after a moment’s thought, she said soberly:

‘As I sat cutting out blue flannel jackets today, at the rooms, I felt very anxious about Father, and thought how lonely and helpless we should be if anything happened to him. It was not a wise thing to do; but I kept on worrying till an old man came in, with an order for some clothes. He sat down near me, and I began to talk to him; for he looked poor and tired and anxious.

‘“Have you sons in the army?” I asked; for the note he brought was not to me.

‘“Yes, ma’am. I had four, but two were killed, one is a prisoner, and I’m going to the other, who is very sick in a Washington hospital,” he answered, quietly.

‘“You have done a great deal for your country, sir,” I said, feeling respect now instead of pity.

‘“Not a mite more than I ought, ma’am. I’d go myself, if I was any use; as I ain’t, I give my boys, and give ’em free.”

‘He spoke so cheerfully, looked so sincere, and seemed so glad to give his all, that I was ashamed of myself. I’d given one man, and thought it too much, while he gave four without grudging them. I had all my girls to comfort me at home; and his last son was waiting, miles away, to say “good-bye” to him, perhaps! I felt so rich, so happy, thinking of my blessings, that I made him a nice bundle, gave him some money, and thanked him heartily for the lesson he had taught me.’

‘Tell another story, Mother – one with a moral to it, like this. I like to think about them afterwards, if they are real, and not too preachy,’ said Jo, after a minute’s silence.

Mrs March smiled, and began at once; for she had told stories to this little audience for many years, and knew how to please them.

‘Once upon a time, there were four girls, who had enough to eat and drink and wear, a good many comforts and pleasures, kind friends and parents, who loved them dearly, and yet they were not contented.’ (Here the listeners stole sly looks at one another, and began to sew diligently.) ‘These girls were anxious to be good, and made many excellent resolutions; but they did not keep them very well, and were constantly saying, “If we only had this,” or “If we could only do that,” quite forgetting how much they already had, and how many pleasant things they actually could do. So they asked an old woman what spell they could use to make them happy, and she said, “When you feel discontented, think over your blessings and be grateful.”’ (Here Jo looked up quickly, as if about to speak, but changed her mind, seeing that the story was not done yet.)

‘Being sensible girls, they decided to try her advice, and soon were surprised to see how well off they were. One discovered that money couldn’t keep shame and sorrow out of rich people’s houses; another that, though she was poor, she was a great deal happier, with her youth, health, and good spirits, than a certain fretful, feeble old lady, who couldn’t enjoy her comforts; a third, that, disagreeable as it was to help get dinner, it was harder still to have to go begging for it; and the fourth, that even carnelian rings were not so valuable as good behaviour. So they agreed to stop complaining, to enjoy the blessings already possessed, and try to deserve them, lest they should be taken away entirely, instead of increased; and I believe they were never disappointed, or sorry that they took the old woman’s advice.’

‘Now, Marmee, that is very cunning of you to turn our own stories against us, and give us a sermon instead of a romance!’ cried Meg.

‘I like that kind of sermon. It’s the sort Father used to tell us,’ said Beth, thoughtfully, putting the needles straight on Jo’s cushion.

‘I don’t complain near as much as the others do, and I shall be more careful than ever now; for I’ve had warning from Susie’s downfall,’ said Amy, morally.

‘We needed that lesson, and we won’t forget it. If we do, you just say to us, as old Chloe did in Uncle Tom, “Tink ob yer marcies, chillen! tink ob yer marcies!”’ added Jo, who could not for the life of her help getting a morsel of fun out of the little sermon, though she took it to heart as much as any of them.

‘What in the world are you going to do now, Jo?’ asked Meg, one snowy afternoon, as her sister came tramping through the hall, in rubber boots, old sack and hood, with a broom in one hand and a shovel in the other.

‘Going out for exercise,’ answered Jo, with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes.

‘I should think two long walks this morning would have been enough! It’s cold and dull out; and I advise you to stay warm and dry, by the fire, as I do,’ said Meg, with a shiver.

‘Never take advice! Can’t keep still all day, and, not being a pussy-cat, I don’t like to doze by the fire. I like adventures, and I’m going to find some.’

Meg went back to toast her feet and read Ivanhoe; and Jo began to dig paths with great energy. The snow was light, and with her broom she soon swept a path all round the garden, for Beth to walk in when the sun came out; and the invalid dolls needed air. Now the garden separated the Marches’ house from that of Mr Laurence. Both stood in a suburb of the city, which was still country-like, with groves and lawns, large gardens, and quiet streets. A low hedge parted the two estates. On one side was an old, brown house, looking rather bare and shabby, robbed of the vines that in summer covered its walls, and the flowers which then surrounded it. On the other side was a stately stone mansion, plainly betokening every sort of comfort and luxury, from the big coach-house and well-kept grounds to the conservatory and the glimpses of lovely things one caught between the rich curtains. Yet it seemed a lonely, lifeless sort of house; for no children frolicked on the lawn, no motherly face ever smiled at the windows, and few people went in and out, except the old gentleman and his grandson.

To Jo’s lively fancy, this fine house seemed a kind of enchanted palace, full of splendours and delights, which no one enjoyed. She had long wanted to behold these hidden glories, and to know the ‘Laurence boy’, who looked as if he would like to be known, if he only knew how to begin. Since the party, she had been more eager than ever, and had planned many ways of making friends with him; but he had not been seen lately, and Jo began to think he had gone away, when she one day spied a brown face at an upper window, looking wistfully down into their garden, where Beth and Amy were snowballing one another.

‘That boy is suffering for society and fun,’ she said to herself. ‘His grandpa does not know what’s good for him, and keeps him shut up all alone. He needs a party of jolly boys to play with, or somebody young and lively. I’ve a great mind to go over and tell the old gentleman so!’

The idea amused Jo, who liked to do daring things, and was always scandalizing Meg by her queer performances. The plan of ‘going over’ was not forgotten; and when the snowy afternoon came, Jo resolved to try what could be done. She saw Mr Laurence drive off, and then sallied out to dig her way down to the hedge, where she paused and took a survey. All quiet – curtains down at the lower windows; servants out of sight, and nothing human visible but a curly black head leaning on a thin hand at the upper window.

‘There he is,’ thought Jo, ‘poor boy! all alone and sick this dismal day. It’s a shame! I’ll toss up a snowball, and make him look out, and then say a kind word to him.’

Up went a handful of soft snow, and the head turned at once, showing a face which lost its listless look in a minute, as the big eyes brightened and the mouth began to smile. Jo nodded and laughed, and flourished her broom as she called out:

‘How do you do? Are you sick?’

Laurie opened the window, and croaked out as hoarsely as a raven,

‘Better, thank you. I’ve had a bad cold, and been shut up a week.’

‘I’m sorry. What do you amuse yourself with?’

‘Nothing; it’s as dull as tombs up here.’

‘Don’t you read?’

‘Not much; they won’t let me.’

‘Can’t somebody read to you?’

‘Grandpa does, sometimes; but my books don’t interest him and I hate to ask Brooke all the time.’

‘Have someone come and see you, then.’

‘There isn’t anyone I’d like to see. Boys make such a row, and my head is weak.’

‘Isn’t there some nice girl who’d read and amuse you? Girls are quiet, and like to play nurse.’

‘Don’t know any.’

‘You know us,’ began Jo, then laughed, and stopped.

‘So I do! Will you come, please?’ cried Laurie.

‘I’m not quiet and nice; but I’ll come, if Mother will let me. I’ll go ask her. Shut that window, like a good boy, and wait till I come.’

With that, Jo shouldered her broom and marched into the house, wondering what they would all say to her. Laurie was in a flutter of excitement at the idea of having company, and flew about to get ready; for, as Mrs March said, he was ‘a little gentleman’, and did honour to the coming guest by brushing his curly pate, putting on a fresh collar, and trying to tidy up the room, which, in spite of half a dozen servants, was anything but neat. Presently there came a loud ring, then a decided voice, asking for ‘Mr Laurie’, and a surprised-looking servant came running up to announce a young lady.

‘All right, show her up, it’s Miss Jo,’ said Laurie, going to the door of his little parlour to meet Jo, who appeared, looking rosy and kind and quite at her ease, with a covered dish in one hand and Beth’s three kittens in the other.

‘Here I am, bag and baggage,’ she said briskly. ‘Mother sent her love, and was glad if I could do anything for you. Meg wanted me to bring some of her blancmange; she makes it very nicely, and Beth thought her cats would be comforting. I knew you’d laugh at them, but I couldn’t refuse, she was so anxious to do something.’

It so happened that Beth’s funny loan was just the thing; for, in laughing over the kits, Laurie forgot his bashfulness, and grew sociable at once.

‘That looks too pretty to eat,’ he said, smiling with pleasure, as Jo uncovered the dish, and showed the blancmange, surrounded by a garland of green leaves, and the scarlet flowers of Amy’s pet geranium.

‘It isn’t anything, only they all felt kindly, and wanted to show it. Tell the girl to put it away for your tea; it’s so simple, you can eat it; and, being soft, it will slip down without hurting your sore throat. What a cosy room this is!’

‘It might be if it was kept nice; but the maids are lazy, and I don’t know how to make them mind. It worries me, though.’

‘I’ll right it up in two minutes; for it only needs to have the hearth brushed, so – and the things made straight on the mantelpiece, so – and the books put here and the bottles there, and your sofa turned from the light, and the pillows plumped up a bit. Now, then, you’re fixed.’

And so he was; for, as she laughed and talked, Jo had whisked things into place, and given quite a different air to the room. Laurie watched her in respectful silence; and when she beckoned him to his sofa, he sat down with a sigh of satisfaction, saying gratefully:

‘How kind you are! Yes, that’s what it wanted. Now please take the big chair, and let me do something to amuse my company.’

‘No. I came to amuse you. Shall I read aloud?’ and Jo looked affectionately towards some inviting books near by.

‘Thank you; I’ve read all those, and if you don’t mind I’d rather talk,’ answered Laurie.

‘Not a bit; I’ll talk all day if you’ll only set me going. Beth says I never know when to stop.’

‘Is Beth the rosy one, who stays at home a good deal, and sometimes goes out with a little basket?’ asked Laurie, with interest.

‘Yes, that’s Beth; she’s my girl, and a regular good one she is, too.’

‘The pretty one is Meg, and the curly-haired one is Amy, I believe?’

‘How did you find that out?’

Laurie coloured up, but answered frankly, ‘Why, you see, I often hear you calling to one another, and when I’m alone up here, I can’t help looking over at your house, you always seem to be having such good times. I beg your pardon for being so rude, but sometimes you forget to put down the curtain at the window where the flowers are; and when the lamps are lighted, it’s like looking at a picture to see the fire, and you all round the table with your mother; her face is right opposite, and it looks so sweet behind the flowers, I can’t help watching it. I haven’t got any mother, you know,’ and Laurie poked the fire to hide a little twitching of the lips that he could not control.

The solitary, hungry look in his eyes went straight to Jo’s warm heart. She had been so simply taught that there was no nonsense in her head, and at fifteen she was as innocent and frank as any child. Laurie was sick and lonely; and, feeling how rich she was in home-love and happiness, she gladly tried to share it with him. Her face was very friendly and her sharp voice unusually gentle as she said:

‘We’ll never draw that curtain any more, and I give you leave to look as much as you like. I just wish, though, instead of peeping, you’d come over and see us. Mother is so splendid, she’d do you heaps of good, and Beth would sing to you if I begged her to, and Amy would dance; Meg and I would make you laugh over our funny stage properties, and we’d have jolly times. Wouldn’t your grandpa let you?’

‘I think he would, if your mother asked him. He’s very kind, though he does not look so; and he lets me do what I like, pretty much, only he’s afraid I might be a bother to strangers,’ began Laurie, brightening more and more.

‘We are not strangers, we are neighbours, and you needn’t think you’d be a bother. We want to know you, and I’ve been trying to do this ever so long. We haven’t been here a great while, you know, but we have got acquainted with all our neighbours but you.’

‘You see grandpa lives among his books, and doesn’t mind much what happens outside. Mr Brooke, my tutor, doesn’t stay here, you know, and I have no one to go about with me, so I just stop at home and get on as I can.’

‘That’s bad. You ought to make an effort, and go visiting everywhere you are asked; then you’ll have plenty of friends, and pleasant places to go to. Never mind being bashful; it won’t last long if you keep going.’

Laurie turned red again, but wasn’t offended at being accused of bashfulness; for there was so much goodwill in Jo, it was impossible not to take her blunt speeches as kindly as they were meant.

‘Do you like your school?’ asked the boy, changing the subject, after a little pause, during which he stared at the fire, and Jo looked about her, well pleased.

‘Don’t go to school; I’m a business man – girl, I mean. I go to wait on my great-aunt, and a dear, cross old soul she is, too,’ answered Jo.

Laurie opened his mouth to ask another question; but remembering just in time that it wasn’t manners to make too many inquiries into people’s affairs, he shut it again, and looked uncomfortable. Jo liked his good breeding, and didn’t mind having a laugh at Aunt March, so she gave him a lively description of the fidgety old lady, her fat poodle, the parrot that talked Spanish, and the library where she revelled. Laurie enjoyed that immensely; and when she told about the prim old gentleman who came once to woo Aunt March, and in the middle of a fine speech, how Polly had tweaked his wig off, to his great dismay, the boy lay back and laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks, and a maid popped her head in to see what was the matter.

‘Oh! that does me no end of good. Tell on, please,’ he said, taking his face out of the sofa cushions, red and shining with merriment.

Much elated with her success, Jo did ‘tell on’, all about their plays and plans, their hopes and fears for Father, and the most interesting events of the little world in which the sisters lived. Then they got to talking about books; and to Jo’s delight, she found that Laurie loved them as well as she did, and had read even more than herself.

‘If you like them so much, come down and see ours. Grandpa is out, so you needn’t be afraid,’ said Laurie, getting up.

‘I’m not afraid of anything,’ returned Jo, with a toss of the head.

‘I don’t believe you are!’ exclaimed the boy, looking at her with much admiration, though he privately thought she would have good reason to be a trifle afraid of the old gentleman, if she met him in some of his moods.

The atmosphere of the whole house being summer-like, Laurie led the way from room to room, letting Jo stop to examine whatever struck her fancy; and so at last they came to the library, where she clapped her hands, and pranced, as she always did when especially delighted. It was lined with books, and there were pictures and statues and distracting little cabinets full of coins and curiosities, and sleepy-hollow chairs and queer tables, and bronzes; and, best of all, a great open fireplace, with quaint tiles all round it.

‘What richness!’ sighed Jo, sinking into the depth of a velvet chair, and gazing about her with an air of intense satisfaction. ‘Theodore Laurence, you ought to be the happiest boy in the world,’ she added impressively.

‘A fellow can’t live on books,’ said Laurie, shaking his head, as he perched on a table opposite.

Before he could say more, a bell rang, and Jo flew up, exclaiming with alarm, ‘Mercy me! it’s your grandpa!’

‘Well, what if it is? You are not afraid of anything, you know,’ returned the boy, looking wicked.

‘I think I am a little bit afraid of him, but I don’t know why I should be. Marmee said I might come, and I don’t think you’re any the worse for it,’ said Jo, composing herself, though she kept her eyes on the door.

‘I’m a great deal better for it, and ever so much obliged. I’m only afraid you are very tired talking to me; it was so pleasant, I couldn’t bear to stop,’ said Laurie, gratefully.

‘The doctor to see you, sir,’ and the maid beckoned as she spoke.

‘Would you mind if I left you for a minute? I suppose I must see him,’ said Laurie.

‘Don’t mind me. I’m as happy as a cricket here,’ answered Jo.

Laurie went away, and his guest amused herself in her own way. She was standing before a fine portrait of the old gentleman, when the door opened again, and without turning, she said decidedly, ‘I’m sure now that I shouldn’t be afraid of him, for he’s got kind eyes, though his mouth is grim, and he looks as if he had a tremendous will of his own. He isn’t as handsome as my grandfather, but I like him.’

‘Thank you, ma’am,’ said a gruff voice behind her; and there, to her great dismay, stood old Mr Laurence.

Poor Jo blushed till she couldn’t blush any redder, and her heart began to beat uncomfortably fast as she thought what she had said. For a minute a wild desire to run away possessed her; but that was cowardly, and the girls would laugh at her; so she resolved to stay, and get out of the scrape if she could. A second look showed her that the living eyes, under the bushy grey eyebrows, were kinder even than the painted ones; and there was a sly twinkle in them which lessened her fear a good deal. The gruff voice was gruffer than ever, as the old gentleman said abruptly, after that dreadful pause, ‘So you’re not afraid of me, hey?’

‘Not much, sir.’

‘And you don’t think me as handsome as your grandfather?’

‘Not quite, sir.’

‘And I’ve got a tremendous will, have I?’

‘I only said I thought so.’

‘But you like me, in spite of it?’

‘Yes, I do, sir.’

That answer pleased the old gentleman; he gave a short laugh, shook hands with her, and, putting his fingers under her chin, turned up her face, examined it gravely, and let it go, saying, with a nod, ‘You’ve got your grandfather’s spirit, if you haven’t his face. He was a fine man, my dear; but, what is better, he was a brave and honest one, and I was proud to be his friend.’

‘Thank you, sir’; and Jo was quite comfortable after that, for it suited her exactly.

‘What have you been doing to this boy of mine, hey?’ was the next question, sharply put.

‘Only trying to be neighbourly, sir’; and Jo told how her visit came about.

‘You think he needs cheering up a bit, do you?’

‘Yes, sir; he seems a little lonely, and young folks would do him good, perhaps. We are only girls, but we should be glad to help if we could, for we don’t forget the splendid Christmas present you sent us,’ said Jo, eagerly.

‘Tut, tut, tut! that was the boy’s affair. How is the poor woman?’

‘Doing nicely, sir’; and off went Jo, talking very fast, as she told all about the Hummels, in whom her mother had interested richer friends than they were.

‘Just her father’s way of doing good. I shall come and see your mother some fine day. Tell her so. There’s the tea-bell; we have it early, on the boy’s account. Come down, and go on being neighbourly.’

‘If you’d like to have me, sir.’

‘Shouldn’t ask you if I didn’t’; and Mr Laurence offered her his arm with old-fashioned courtesy.

‘What would Meg say to this?’ thought Jo, as she was marched away, while her eyes danced with fun as she imagined herself telling the story at home.

‘Hey! Why, what the dickens has come to the fellow?’ said the old gentleman, as Laurie came running downstairs, and brought up with a start of surprise at the astonishing sight of Jo arm-in-arm with his redoubtable grandfather.

‘I didn’t know you’d come, sir,’ he began, as Jo gave him a triumphant little glance.

‘That’s evident, by the way you racket downstairs. Come to your tea, sir, and behave like a gentleman’; and having pulled the boy’s hair by way of a caress, Mr Laurence walked on, while Laurie went through a series of comic evolutions behind their backs, which nearly produced an explosion of laughter from Jo.

The old gentleman did not say much as he drank his four cups of tea, but he watched the young people, who soon chatted away like old friends, and the change in his grandson did not escape him. There was colour, light, and life in the boy’s face now, vivacity in his manner, and genuine merriment in his laugh.

‘She’s right; the lad is lonely. I’ll see what these little girls can do for him,’ thought Mr Laurence, as he looked and listened. He liked Jo, for her odd, blunt ways suited him; and she seemed to understand the boy almost as well as if she had been one herself.

If the Laurences had been what Jo called ‘prim and poky’ she would not have got on at all, for such people always made her shy and awkward; but finding them free and easy, she was so herself, and made a good impression. When they rose, she proposed to go, but Laurie said he had something more to show her, and took her away to the conservatory, which had been lighted for her benefit. It seemed quite fairylike to Jo, as she went up and down the walks, enjoying the blooming walls on either side, the soft light, the damp, sweet air, and the wonderful vines and trees that hung above her – while her new friend cut the finest flowers till his hands were full; then he tied them up, saying, with the happy look Jo liked to see, ‘Please give these to your mother, and tell her I like the medicine she sent me very much.’

They found Mr Laurence standing before the fire in the great drawing room, but Jo’s attention was entirely absorbed by a grand piano, which stood open.

‘Do you play?’ she asked, turning to Laurie with a respectful expression.

‘Sometimes,’ he answered, modestly.

‘Please do now. I want to hear it so I can tell Beth.’

‘Won’t you first?’

‘Don’t know how; too stupid to learn, but I love music dearly.’

So Laurie played, and Jo listened, with her nose luxuriously buried in heliotrope and tea-roses. Her respect and regard for the ‘Laurence boy’ increased very much, for he played remarkably well, and didn’t put on any airs. She wished Beth could hear him, but she did not say so; only praised him till he was quite abashed and his grandfather came to the rescue. ‘That will do, that will do, young lady. Too many sugar-plums are not good for him. His music isn’t bad, but I hope he will do as well in more important things. Going? Well, I’m much obliged to you, and I hope you’ll come again. My respects to your mother. Good night, Doctor Jo.’

He shook hands kindly, but looked as if something did not please him. When they got into the hall, Jo asked Laurie if she had said anything amiss. He shook his head.

‘No, it was me; he doesn’t like to hear me play.’

‘Why not?’

‘I’ll tell you some day. John is going home with you, as I can’t.’

‘No need of that; I am not a young lady, and it’s only a step. Take care of yourself, won’t you?’

‘Yes; but you will come again, I hope?’

‘If you promise to come and see us after you are well.’

‘I will.’

‘Good night, Laurie!’

‘Good night, Jo, good night!’

When all the afternoon’s adventures had been told, the family felt inclined to go visiting in a body, for each found something very attractive in the big house on the other side of the hedge: Mrs March wanted to talk of her father with the old man who had not forgotten him; Meg longed to walk in the conservatory; Beth sighed for the grand piano; and Amy was eager to see the fine pictures and statues.

‘Mother, why didn’t Mr Laurence like to have Laurie play?’ asked Jo, who was of an inquiring disposition.

‘I am not sure, but I think it was because his son, Laurie’s father, married an Italian lady, a musician, which displeased the old man, who is very proud. The lady was good and lovely and accomplished, but he did not like her, and never saw his son after he married. They both died when Laurie was a little child, and then his grandfather took him home. I fancy the boy, who was born in Italy, is not very strong, and the old man is afraid of losing him, which makes him so careful. Laurie comes naturally by his love of music, for he is like his mother, and I dare say his grandfather fears that he may want to be a musician; at any rate, his skill reminds him of the woman he did not like, and so he “glowered”, as Jo said.’

‘Dear me, how romantic!’ exclaimed Meg.

‘How silly!’ said Jo. ‘Let him be a musician, if he wants to, and not plague his life out sending him to college, when he hates to go.’

‘That’s why he has such handsome black eyes and pretty manners, I suppose. Italians are always nice,’ said Meg, who was a little sentimental.

‘What do you know about his eyes and his manners? You never spoke to him, hardly,’ cried Jo, who was not sentimental.

‘I saw him at the party, and what you tell shows that he knows how to behave. That was a nice little speech about the medicine Mother sent him.’

‘He meant the blancmange, I suppose.’

‘How stupid you are, child! He meant you, of course.’

‘Did he?’ and Jo opened her eyes as if it had never occurred to her before.

‘I never saw such a girl! You don’t know a compliment when you get it,’ said Meg, with the air of a young lady who knew all about the matter.

‘I think they are great nonsense, and I’ll thank you not to be silly, and spoil my fun. Laurie’s a nice boy, and I like him, and I won’t have any sentimental stuff about compliments and such rubbish. We’ll all be good to him, because he hasn’t got any mother, and he may come over and see us, mayn’t he, Marmee?’

‘Yes, Jo, your little friend is very welcome, and I hope Meg will remember that children should be children as long as they can.’

‘I don’t call myself a child, and I’m not in my teens yet,’ observed Amy. ‘What do you say, Beth?’

‘I was thinking about our Pilgrim’s Progress,’ answered Beth, who had not heard a word. ‘How we got out of the Slough and through the Wicket Gate by resolving to be good, and up the steep hill by trying; and that maybe the house over there full of splendid things, is going to be our Palace Beautiful.’

‘We have got to get by the lions, first,’ said Jo, as if she rather liked the prospect.

The big house did prove a Palace Beautiful, though it took some time for all to get in, and Beth found it very hard to pass the lions. Old Mr Laurence was the biggest one; but after he had called, said something funny or kind to each one of the girls, and talked over old times with their mother, nobody felt much afraid of him, except timid Beth. The other lion was the fact that they were poor and Laurie rich; for this made them shy of accepting favours which they could not return. But, after a while they found that he considered them the benefactors, and could not do enough to show how grateful he was for Mrs March’s motherly welcome, their cheerful society, and the comfort he took in that humble home of theirs. So they soon forgot their pride, and interchanged kindnesses without stopping to think which was the greater.

All sorts of pleasant things happened about that time; for the new friendship flourished like grass in spring. Everyone liked Laurie, and he privately informed his tutor that ‘the Marches were regular splendid girls’. With the delightful enthusiasm of youth they took the solitary boy into their midst, and made much of him, and he found something very charming in the innocent companionship of these simple-hearted girls. Never having known mother or sisters, he was quick to feel the influences they brought about him; and their busy, lively ways made him ashamed of the indolent life he led. He was tired of books, and found people so interesting now that Mr Brooke was obliged to make very unsatisfactory reports; for Laurie was always playing truant and running over to the Marches’.

‘Never mind; let him take a holiday, and make it up afterwards,’ said the old gentleman. ‘The good lady next door says he is studying too hard, and needs young society, amusement, and exercise. I suspect she is right, and that I’ve been coddling the fellow as if I’d been his grandmother. Let him do what he likes, as long as he is happy. He can’t get into mischief in that little nunnery over there; and Mrs March is doing more for him than we can.’

What good times they had, to be sure! Such plays and tableaux, such sleigh-rides and skating frolics, such pleasant evenings in the old parlour, and now and then such gay little parties at the great house. Meg could walk in the conservatory whenever she liked, and revel in bouquets; Jo browsed over the new library voraciously, and convulsed the old gentleman with her criticisms. Amy copied pictures and enjoyed beauty to her heart’s content; and Laurie played ‘lord of the manor’ in the most delightful style.

But Beth, though yearning for the grand piano, could not pluck up courage to go to the ‘Mansion of Bliss’, as Meg called it. She went once with Jo; but the old gentleman, not being aware of her infirmity, stared at her so hard from under his heavy eyebrows, and said ‘Hey!’ so loud, that he frightened her so much her ‘feet chattered on the floor’, she told her mother; and she ran away, declaring she would never go there any more, not even for the dear piano. No persuasions or enticements could overcome her fears, till the fact coming to Mr Laurence’s ear in some mysterious way, he set about mending matters. During one of the brief calls he made, he artfully led the conversation to music, and talked away about great singers whom he had seen, fine organs he had heard, and told such charming anecdotes that Beth found it impossible to stay in her distant corner, but crept nearer and nearer, as if fascinated. At the back of his chair she stopped, and stood listening, with her great eyes wide open, and her cheeks red with the excitement of this unusual performance. Taking no more notice of her than if she had been a fly, Mr Laurence talked on about Laurie’s lessons and teachers; and presently, as if the idea had just occurred to him, he said to Mrs March:

‘The boy neglects his music now, and I’m glad of it, for he was getting too fond of it. But the piano suffers for want of use. Wouldn’t some of your girls like to run over, and practise on it now and then, just to keep it in tune, you know, ma’am?’

Beth took a step forward, and pressed her hands tightly together to keep from clapping them, for this was an irresistible temptation; and the thought of practising on that splendid instrument quite took her breath away. Before Mrs March could reply, Mr Laurence went on with an odd little nod and smile:

‘They needn’t see or speak to anyone, but run in at any time; for I’m shut up in my study at the other end of the house, Laurie is out a great deal, and the servants are never near the drawing room after nine o’clock.’

Here he rose, as if going, and Beth made up her mind to speak, for that last arrangement left nothing to be desired. ‘Please tell the young ladies what I say; and if they don’t care to come, why, never mind.’ Here a little hand slipped into his, and Beth looked up at him with a face full of gratitude, as she said, in her earnest, yet timid way:

‘Oh, sir, they do care, very, very much!’

‘Are you the musical girl?’ he asked, without any startling ‘Hey!’ as he looked down at her very kindly.

‘I’m Beth. I love it dearly, and I’ll come, if you are quite sure nobody will hear me – and be disturbed,’ she added, fearing to be rude, and trembling at her own boldness as she spoke.

‘Not a soul, my dear. The house is empty half the day; so come and drum away as much as you like, and I shall be obliged to you.’

‘How kind you are, sir!’

Beth blushed like a rose under the friendly look he wore; but she was not frightened now, and gave the big hand a grateful squeeze, because she had no words to thank him for the precious gift he had given her. The old gentleman softly stroked the hair of her forehead, and stooping down, he kissed her, saying, in a tone few people ever heard:

‘I had a little girl once, with eyes like these. God bless you, my dear! Good day, madam’; and away he went, in a great hurry.

Beth had a rapture with her mother, and then rushed up to impart the glorious news to her family of invalids, as the girls were not at home. How blithely she sang that evening, and how they all laughed at her, because she woke Amy in the night by playing the piano on her face in her sleep. Next day, having seen both the old and the young gentlemen out of the house, Beth, after two or three retreats, fairly got in at the side-door and made her way, as noiselessly as any mouse, to the drawing room where her idol stood. Quite by accident of course, some pretty, easy music lay on the piano; and, with trembling fingers, and frequent stops to listen and look about, Beth at last touched the great instrument, and straightway forgot her fear, herself, and everything else but the unspeakable delight which the music gave her, for it was like the voice of a beloved friend.

She stayed till Hannah came to take her home to dinner; but she had no appetite, and could only sit and smile upon everyone in a general state of beatitude.

After that, the little brown hood slipped through the hedge nearly every day, and the great drawing room was haunted by a tuneful spirit that came and went unseen. She never knew that Mr Laurence often opened his study door to hear the old-fashioned airs he liked; she never saw Laurie mount guard in the hall to warn the servants away; she never suspected that the exercise-books and new songs which she found in the rack were put there for her especial benefit; and when he talked to her about music at home, she only thought how kind he was to tell things that helped her so much. So she enjoyed herself heartily, and found, what isn’t always the case, that her granted wish was all she had hoped. Perhaps it was because she was so grateful for this blessing that a greater was given her; at any rate she deserved both.

‘Mother, I’m going to work Mr Laurence a pair of slippers. He is so kind to me, I must thank him, and I don’t know any other way. Can I do it?’ asked Beth, a few weeks after that eventful call of his.

‘Yes, dear. It will please him very much, and be a nice way of thanking him. The girls will help you about them, and I will pay for the making up,’ replied Mrs March, who took peculiar pleasure in granting Beth’s requests, because she so seldom asked anything for herself.

After many serious discussions with Meg and Jo, the pattern was chosen, the materials bought, and the slippers begun. A cluster of grave yet cheerful pansies on a deeper purple ground, was pronounced very appropriate and pretty; and Beth worked away early and late, with occasional lifts over hard parts. She was a nimble little needle-woman, and they were finished before anyone got tired of them. Then she wrote a very short, simple note, and, with Laurie’s help, got them smuggled on to the study-table one morning before the old gentleman was up.

When this excitement was over, Beth waited to see what would happen. All that day passed, and a part of the next, before any acknowledgement arrived, and she was beginning to fear she had offended her crotchety friend. On the afternoon of the second day, she went out to do an errand, and give poor Joanna, the invalid doll, her daily exercise. As she came up the street, on her return, she saw three, yes, four, heads popping in and out of the parlour windows, and the moment they saw her, several hands were waved, and several joyful voices screamed:

‘Here’s a letter from the old gentleman! Come quick, and read it!’

‘Oh, Beth, he’s sent you –’ began Amy, gesticulating with unseemly energy; but she got no further, for Jo quenched her by slamming down the window.

Beth hurried on in a flutter of suspense. At the door, her sisters seized and bore her to the parlour in a triumphal procession, all pointing, and all saying at once, ‘Look there! look there!’ Beth did look, and turned pale with delight and surprise; for there stood a little cabinet piano, with a letter lying on the glossy lid, directed, like a signboard, to ‘Miss Elizabeth March.’

‘For me?’ gasped Beth, holding on to Jo, and feeling as if she should tumble down, it was such an overwhelming thing altogether.

‘Yes; all for you, my precious! Isn’t it splendid of him? Don’t you think he’s the dearest old man in the world? Here’s the key in the letter. We didn’t open it, but we are dying to know what he says,’ cried Jo, hugging her sister, and offering the note.

‘You read it! I can’t! I feel so queer! Oh, it is too lovely!’ and Beth hid her face in Jo’s apron, quite upset by her present.

Jo opened the paper, and began to laugh, for the first words she saw were:

‘MISS MARCH:

‘Dear Madam’ –

‘How nice it sounds! I wish someone would write to me so!’ said Amy, who thought the old-fashioned address very elegant.

‘“I have had many pairs of slippers in my life, but I never had any that suited me so well as yours,”’ continued Jo. ‘“Heart’s ease is my favourite flower, and these will always remind of the gentle giver. I like to pay my debts; so I know you will allow ‘the old gentleman’ to send you something which once belonged to the little granddaughter he lost. With hearty thanks and best wishes, I remain, your grateful friend and humble servant, ‘“JAMES LAURENCE.”’

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