prompt:
Chapter: XL. THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW.

When the first bitterness was over, the family accepted the inevitable,
and tried to bear it cheerfully, helping one another by the increased
affection which comes to bind households tenderly together in times of
trouble. They put away their grief, and each did his or her part toward
making that last year a happy one.

The pleasantest room in the house was set apart for Beth, and in it was
gathered everything that she most loved,--flowers, pictures, her piano,
the little work-table, and the beloved pussies. Father's best books
found their way there, mother's easy-chair, Jo's desk, Amy's finest
sketches; and every day Meg brought her babies on a loving pilgrimage,
to make sunshine for Aunty Beth. John quietly set apart a little sum,
that he might enjoy the pleasure of keeping the invalid supplied with
the fruit she loved and longed for; old Hannah never wearied of
concocting dainty dishes to tempt a capricious appetite, dropping tears
as she worked; and from across the sea came little gifts and cheerful
letters, seeming to bring breaths of warmth and fragrance from lands
that know no winter.

Here, cherished like a household saint in its shrine, sat Beth, tranquil
and busy as ever; for nothing could change the sweet, unselfish nature,
and even while preparing to leave life, she tried to make it happier for
those who should remain behind. The feeble fingers were never idle, and
one of her pleasures was to make little things for the school-children
daily passing to and fro,--to drop a pair of mittens from her window for
a pair of purple hands, a needle-book for some small mother of many
dolls, pen-wipers for young penmen toiling through forests of pot-hooks,
scrap-books for picture-loving eyes, and all manner of pleasant devices,
till the reluctant climbers up the ladder of learning found their way
strewn with flowers, as it were, and came to regard the gentle giver as
a sort of fairy godmother, who sat above there, and showered down gifts
miraculously suited to their tastes and needs. If Beth had wanted any
reward, she found it in the bright little faces always turned up to her
window, with nods and smiles, and the droll little letters which came to
her, full of blots and gratitude.

The first few months were very happy ones, and Beth often used to look
round, and say "How beautiful this is!" as they all sat together in her
sunny room, the babies kicking and crowing on the floor, mother and
sisters working near, and father reading, in his pleasant voice, from
the wise old books which seemed rich in good and comfortable words, as
applicable now as when written centuries ago; a little chapel, where a
paternal priest taught his flock the hard lessons all must learn, trying
to show them that hope can comfort love, and faith make resignation
possible. Simple sermons, that went straight to the souls of those who
listened; for the father's heart was in the minister's religion, and the
frequent falter in the voice gave a double eloquence to the words he
spoke or read.

It was well for all that this peaceful time was given them as
preparation for the sad hours to come; for, by and by, Beth said the
needle was "so heavy," and put it down forever; talking wearied her,
faces troubled her, pain claimed her for its own, and her tranquil
spirit was sorrowfully perturbed by the ills that vexed her feeble
flesh. Ah me! such heavy days, such long, long nights, such aching
hearts and imploring prayers, when those who loved her best were forced
to see the thin hands stretched out to them beseechingly, to hear the
bitter cry, "Help me, help me!" and to feel that there was no help. A
sad eclipse of the serene soul, a sharp struggle of the young life with
death; but both were mercifully brief, and then, the natural rebellion
over, the old peace returned more beautiful than ever. With the wreck of
her frail body, Beth's soul grew strong; and, though she said little,
those about her felt that she was ready, saw that the first pilgrim
called was likewise the fittest, and waited with her on the shore,
trying to see the Shining Ones coming to receive her when she crossed
the river.

Jo never left her for an hour since Beth had said, "I feel stronger when
you are here." She slept on a couch in the room, waking often to renew
the fire, to feed, lift, or wait upon the patient creature who seldom
asked for anything, and "tried not to be a trouble." All day she haunted
the room, jealous of any other nurse, and prouder of being chosen then
than of any honor her life ever brought her. Precious and helpful hours
to Jo, for now her heart received the teaching that it needed; lessons
in patience were so sweetly taught her that she could not fail to learn
them; charity for all, the lovely spirit that can forgive and truly
forget unkindness, the loyalty to duty that makes the hardest easy, and
the sincere faith that fears nothing, but trusts undoubtingly.

Often, when she woke, Jo found Beth reading in her well-worn little
book, heard her singing softly, to beguile the sleepless night, or saw
her lean her face upon her hands, while slow tears dropped through the
transparent fingers; and Jo would lie watching her, with thoughts too
deep for tears, feeling that Beth, in her simple, unselfish way, was
trying to wean herself from the dear old life, and fit herself for the
life to come, by sacred words of comfort, quiet prayers, and the music
she loved so well.

Seeing this did more for Jo than the wisest sermons, the saintliest
hymns, the most fervent prayers that any voice could utter; for, with
eyes made clear by many tears, and a heart softened by the tenderest
sorrow, she recognized the beauty of her sister's life,--uneventful,
unambitious, yet full of the genuine virtues which "smell sweet, and
blossom in the dust," the self-forgetfulness that makes the humblest on
earth remembered soonest in heaven, the true success which is possible
to all.

One night, when Beth looked among the books upon her table, to find
something to make her forget the mortal weariness that was almost as
hard to bear as pain, as she turned the leaves of her old favorite
Pilgrim's Progress, she found a little paper, scribbled over in Jo's
hand. The name caught her eye, and the blurred look of the lines made
her sure that tears had fallen on it.

"Poor Jo! she's fast asleep, so I won't wake her to ask leave; she shows
me all her things, and I don't think she'll mind if I look at this,"
thought Beth, with a glance at her sister, who lay on the rug, with the
tongs beside her, ready to wake up the minute the log fell apart.

                               "MY BETH.

        "Sitting patient in the shadow
           Till the blessed light shall come,
         A serene and saintly presence
           Sanctifies our troubled home.
         Earthly joys and hopes and sorrows
           Break like ripples on the strand
         Of the deep and solemn river
           Where her willing feet now stand.

        "O my sister, passing from me,
           Out of human care and strife,
         Leave me, as a gift, those virtues
           Which have beautified your life.
         Dear, bequeath me that great patience
           Which has power to sustain
         A cheerful, uncomplaining spirit
           In its prison-house of pain.

        "Give me, for I need it sorely,
           Of that courage, wise and sweet,
         Which has made the path of duty
           Green beneath your willing feet.
         Give me that unselfish nature,
           That with charity divine
         Can pardon wrong for love's dear sake--
           Meek heart, forgive me mine!

        "Thus our parting daily loseth
          Something of its bitter pain,
         And while learning this hard lesson,
           My great loss becomes my gain.
         For the touch of grief will render
           My wild nature more serene,
         Give to life new aspirations,
           A new trust in the unseen.

        "Henceforth, safe across the river,
           I shall see forevermore
         A beloved, household spirit
           Waiting for me on the shore.
         Hope and faith, born of my sorrow,
           Guardian angels shall become,
         And the sister gone before me
           By their hands shall lead me home."

Blurred and blotted, faulty and feeble, as the lines were, they brought
a look of inexpressible comfort to Beth's face, for her one regret had
been that she had done so little; and this seemed to assure her that her
life had not been useless, that her death would not bring the despair
she feared. As she sat with the paper folded between her hands, the
charred log fell asunder. Jo started up, revived the blaze, and crept to
the bedside, hoping Beth slept.

"Not asleep, but so happy, dear. See, I found this and read it; I knew
you wouldn't care. Have I been all that to you, Jo?" she asked, with
wistful, humble earnestness.

"O Beth, so much, so much!" and Jo's head went down upon the pillow,
beside her sister's.

"Then I don't feel as if I'd wasted my life. I'm not so good as you make
me, but I _have_ tried to do right; and now, when it's too late to
begin even to do better, it's such a comfort to know that some one loves
me so much, and feels as if I'd helped them."

"More than any one in the world, Beth. I used to think I couldn't let
you go; but I'm learning to feel that I don't lose you; that you'll be
more to me than ever, and death can't part us, though it seems to."

"I know it cannot, and I don't fear it any longer, for I'm sure I shall
be your Beth still, to love and help you more than ever. You must take
my place, Jo, and be everything to father and mother when I'm gone. They
will turn to you, don't fail them; and if it's hard to work alone,
remember that I don't forget you, and that you'll be happier in doing
that than writing splendid books or seeing all the world; for love is
the only thing that we can carry with us when we go, and it makes the
end so easy."

"I'll try, Beth;" and then and there Jo renounced her old ambition,
pledged herself to a new and better one, acknowledging the poverty of
other desires, and feeling the blessed solace of a belief in the
immortality of love.

So the spring days came and went, the sky grew clearer, the earth
greener, the flowers were up fair and early, and the birds came back in
time to say good-by to Beth, who, like a tired but trustful child, clung
to the hands that had led her all her life, as father and mother guided
her tenderly through the Valley of the Shadow, and gave her up to God.

Seldom, except in books, do the dying utter memorable words, see
visions, or depart with beatified countenances; and those who have sped
many parting souls know that to most the end comes as naturally and
simply as sleep. As Beth had hoped, the "tide went out easily;" and in
the dark hour before the dawn, on the bosom where she had drawn her
first breath, she quietly drew her last, with no farewell but one loving
look, one little sigh.

With tears and prayers and tender hands, mother and sisters made her
ready for the long sleep that pain would never mar again, seeing with
grateful eyes the beautiful serenity that soon replaced the pathetic
patience that had wrung their hearts so long, and feeling, with reverent
joy, that to their darling death was a benignant angel, not a phantom
full of dread.

When morning came, for the first time in many months the fire was out,
Jo's place was empty, and the room was very still. But a bird sang
blithely on a budding bough, close by, the snow-drops blossomed freshly
at the window, and the spring sunshine streamed in like a benediction
over the placid face upon the pillow,--a face so full of painless peace
that those who loved it best smiled through their tears, and thanked God
that Beth was well at last.

                       [Illustration: Tail-piece]

                [Illustration: Sat staring up at the busts]

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: The March family accepts that Beth is dying. They band together to make her last days easy and comfortable and to comfort one another. Everyone contributes something to make Beth comfortable; a room is set aside for her, and Meg visits frequently with her twins. Even in her dying days, Beth keeps doing little domestic tasks. Her favorite thing to do is to knit and sew gifts for the poor schoolchildren who pass underneath her window every day. The first few months are pleasant - the family hangs out together in Beth's room and everyone is cheerful and loving. Soon, however, Beth becomes much sicker. She's too weak to sew and she is very ill and disturbed. Jo spends all her time nursing Beth - she even sleeps on the couch in Beth's room. Beth spends a lot of her time reading the Bible. Watching Beth come to grips with her mortality is an important moral lesson for Jo. She starts to realize how important Beth is to the family, even though she doesn't do anything ambitious or showy. One night when Jo is asleep, Beth starts reading Pilgrim's Progress and finds a copy of a poem in Jo's handwriting. She reads the poem, which is about her, and finds it loving and comforting. Jo wakes up and she and Beth talk about the poem, and about how much Beth has meant to the family. Beth says that she knows now that she hasn't wasted her life. Beth and Jo talk about their religious faith and their belief that death will not really part them, in the end. Beth makes Jo promise to take her place as the "angel in the house" and take care of their parents. Beth doesn't say any famous last words, but her death is easy and gentle. Beth's family prepare her body for burial - that's pretty typical for the nineteenth century. The family thanks God for Beth's life.


prompt:
Chapter: XLI. LEARNING TO FORGET.

Amy's lecture did Laurie good, though, of course, he did not own it till
long afterward; men seldom do, for when women are the advisers, the
lords of creation don't take the advice till they have persuaded
themselves that it is just what they intended to do; then they act upon
it, and, if it succeeds, they give the weaker vessel half the credit of
it; if it fails, they generously give her the whole. Laurie went back to
his grandfather, and was so dutifully devoted for several weeks that the
old gentleman declared the climate of Nice had improved him wonderfully,
and he had better try it again. There was nothing the young gentleman
would have liked better, but elephants could not have dragged him back
after the scolding he had received; pride forbid, and whenever the
longing grew very strong, he fortified his resolution by repeating the
words that had made the deepest impression, "I despise you;" "Go and do
something splendid that will _make_ her love you."

Laurie turned the matter over in his mind so often that he soon brought
himself to confess that he _had_ been selfish and lazy; but then when a
man has a great sorrow, he should be indulged in all sorts of vagaries
till he has lived it down. He felt that his blighted affections were
quite dead now; and, though he should never cease to be a faithful
mourner, there was no occasion to wear his weeds ostentatiously. Jo
_wouldn't_ love him, but he might _make_ her respect and admire him by
doing something which should prove that a girl's "No" had not spoilt his
life. He had always meant to do something, and Amy's advice was quite
unnecessary. He had only been waiting till the aforesaid blighted
affections were decently interred; that being done, he felt that he was
ready to "hide his stricken heart, and still toil on."

As Goethe, when he had a joy or a grief, put it into a song, so Laurie
resolved to embalm his love-sorrow in music, and compose a Requiem which
should harrow up Jo's soul and melt the heart of every hearer. Therefore
the next time the old gentleman found him getting restless and moody,
and ordered him off, he went to Vienna, where he had musical friends,
and fell to work with the firm determination to distinguish himself.
But, whether the sorrow was too vast to be embodied in music, or music
too ethereal to uplift a mortal woe, he soon discovered that the Requiem
was beyond him, just at present. It was evident that his mind was not in
working order yet, and his ideas needed clarifying; for often in the
middle of a plaintive strain, he would find himself humming a dancing
tune that vividly recalled the Christmas ball at Nice, especially the
stout Frenchman, and put an effectual stop to tragic composition for the
time being.

Then he tried an Opera, for nothing seemed impossible in the beginning;
but here, again, unforeseen difficulties beset him. He wanted Jo for his
heroine, and called upon his memory to supply him with tender
recollections and romantic visions of his love. But memory turned
traitor; and, as if possessed by the perverse spirit of the girl, would
only recall Jo's oddities, faults, and freaks, would only show her in
the most unsentimental aspects,--beating mats with her head tied up in
a bandanna, barricading herself with the sofa-pillow, or throwing cold
water over his passion _à la_ Gummidge,--and an irresistible laugh
spoilt the pensive picture he was endeavoring to paint. Jo wouldn't be
put into the Opera at any price, and he had to give her up with a "Bless
that girl, what a torment she is!" and a clutch at his hair, as became a
distracted composer.

When he looked about him for another and a less intractable damsel to
immortalize in melody, memory produced one with the most obliging
readiness. This phantom wore many faces, but it always had golden hair,
was enveloped in a diaphanous cloud, and floated airily before his
mind's eye in a pleasing chaos of roses, peacocks, white ponies, and
blue ribbons. He did not give the complacent wraith any name, but he
took her for his heroine, and grew quite fond of her, as well he might;
for he gifted her with every gift and grace under the sun, and escorted
her, unscathed, through trials which would have annihilated any mortal
woman.

Thanks to this inspiration, he got on swimmingly for a time, but
gradually the work lost its charm, and he forgot to compose, while he
sat musing, pen in hand, or roamed about the gay city to get new ideas
and refresh his mind, which seemed to be in a somewhat unsettled state
that winter. He did not do much, but he thought a great deal and was
conscious of a change of some sort going on in spite of himself. "It's
genius simmering, perhaps. I'll let it simmer, and see what comes of
it," he said, with a secret suspicion, all the while, that it wasn't
genius, but something far more common. Whatever it was, it simmered to
some purpose, for he grew more and more discontented with his desultory
life, began to long for some real and earnest work to go at, soul and
body, and finally came to the wise conclusion that every one who loved
music was not a composer. Returning from one of Mozart's grand operas,
splendidly performed at the Royal Theatre, he looked over his own,
played a few of the best parts, sat staring up at the busts of
Mendelssohn, Beethoven, and Bach, who stared benignly back again; then
suddenly he tore up his music-sheets, one by one, and, as the last
fluttered out of his hand, he said soberly to himself,--

"She is right! Talent isn't genius, and you can't make it so. That
music has taken the vanity out of me as Rome took it out of her, and I
won't be a humbug any longer. Now what shall I do?"

That seemed a hard question to answer, and Laurie began to wish he had
to work for his daily bread. Now, if ever, occurred an eligible
opportunity for "going to the devil," as he once forcibly expressed it,
for he had plenty of money and nothing to do, and Satan is proverbially
fond of providing employment for full and idle hands. The poor fellow
had temptations enough from without and from within, but he withstood
them pretty well; for, much as he valued liberty, he valued good faith
and confidence more, so his promise to his grandfather, and his desire
to be able to look honestly into the eyes of the women who loved him,
and say "All's well," kept him safe and steady.

Very likely some Mrs. Grundy will observe, "I don't believe it; boys
will be boys, young men must sow their wild oats, and women must not
expect miracles." I dare say _you_ don't, Mrs. Grundy, but it's true
nevertheless. Women work a good many miracles, and I have a persuasion
that they may perform even that of raising the standard of manhood by
refusing to echo such sayings. Let the boys be boys, the longer the
better, and let the young men sow their wild oats if they must; but
mothers, sisters, and friends may help to make the crop a small one, and
keep many tares from spoiling the harvest, by believing, and showing
that they believe, in the possibility of loyalty to the virtues which
make men manliest in good women's eyes. If it _is_ a feminine delusion,
leave us to enjoy it while we may, for without it half the beauty and
the romance of life is lost, and sorrowful forebodings would embitter
all our hopes of the brave, tender-hearted little lads, who still love
their mothers better than themselves, and are not ashamed to own it.

Laurie thought that the task of forgetting his love for Jo would absorb
all his powers for years; but, to his great surprise, he discovered it
grew easier every day. He refused to believe it at first, got angry with
himself, and couldn't understand it; but these hearts of ours are
curious and contrary things, and time and nature work their will in
spite of us. Laurie's heart _wouldn't_ ache; the wound persisted in
healing with a rapidity that astonished him, and, instead of trying to
forget, he found himself trying to remember. He had not foreseen this
turn of affairs, and was not prepared for it. He was disgusted with
himself, surprised at his own fickleness, and full of a queer mixture of
disappointment and relief that he could recover from such a tremendous
blow so soon. He carefully stirred up the embers of his lost love, but
they refused to burst into a blaze: there was only a comfortable glow
that warmed and did him good without putting him into a fever, and he
was reluctantly obliged to confess that the boyish passion was slowly
subsiding into a more tranquil sentiment, very tender, a little sad and
resentful still, but that was sure to pass away in time, leaving a
brotherly affection which would last unbroken to the end.

As the word "brotherly" passed through his mind in one of these
reveries, he smiled, and glanced up at the picture of Mozart that was
before him:--

"Well, he was a great man; and when he couldn't have one sister he took
the other, and was happy."

Laurie did not utter the words, but he thought them; and the next
instant kissed the little old ring, saying to himself,--

"No, I won't! I haven't forgotten, I never can. I'll try again, and if
that fails, why, then--"

Leaving his sentence unfinished, he seized pen and paper and wrote to
Jo, telling her that he could not settle to anything while there was the
least hope of her changing her mind. Couldn't she, wouldn't she, and let
him come home and be happy? While waiting for an answer he did nothing,
but he did it energetically, for he was in a fever of impatience. It
came at last, and settled his mind effectually on one point, for Jo
decidedly couldn't and wouldn't. She was wrapped up in Beth, and never
wished to hear the word "love" again. Then she begged him to be happy
with somebody else, but always to keep a little corner of his heart for
his loving sister Jo. In a postscript she desired him not to tell Amy
that Beth was worse; she was coming home in the spring, and there was no
need of saddening the remainder of her stay. That would be time enough,
please God, but Laurie must write to her often, and not let her feel
lonely, homesick, or anxious.

"So I will, at once. Poor little girl; it will be a sad going home for
her, I'm afraid;" and Laurie opened his desk, as if writing to Amy had
been the proper conclusion of the sentence left unfinished some weeks
before.

But he did not write the letter that day; for, as he rummaged out his
best paper, he came across something which changed his purpose. Tumbling
about in one part of the desk, among bills, passports, and business
documents of various kinds, were several of Jo's letters, and in another
compartment were three notes from Amy, carefully tied up with one of her
blue ribbons, and sweetly suggestive of the little dead roses put away
inside. With a half-repentant, half-amused expression, Laurie gathered
up all Jo's letters, smoothed, folded, and put them neatly into a small
drawer of the desk, stood a minute turning the ring thoughtfully on his
finger, then slowly drew it off, laid it with the letters, locked the
drawer, and went out to hear High Mass at Saint Stefan's, feeling as if
there had been a funeral; and, though not overwhelmed with affliction,
this seemed a more proper way to spend the rest of the day than in
writing letters to charming young ladies.

     [Illustration: Turning the ring thoughtfully upon his finger]

The letter went very soon, however, and was promptly answered, for Amy
_was_ homesick, and confessed it in the most delightfully confiding
manner. The correspondence flourished famously, and letters flew to and
fro, with unfailing regularity, all through the early spring. Laurie
sold his busts, made allumettes of his opera, and went back to Paris,
hoping somebody would arrive before long. He wanted desperately to go to
Nice, but would not till he was asked; and Amy would not ask him, for
just then she was having little experiences of her own, which made her
rather wish to avoid the quizzical eyes of "our boy."

Fred Vaughn had returned, and put the question to which she had once
decided to answer "Yes, thank you;" but now she said, "No, thank you,"
kindly but steadily; for, when the time came, her courage failed her,
and she found that something more than money and position was needed to
satisfy the new longing that filled her heart so full of tender hopes
and fears. The words, "Fred is a good fellow, but not at all the man I
fancied you would ever like," and Laurie's face when he uttered them,
kept returning to her as pertinaciously as her own did when she said in
look, if not in words, "I shall marry for money." It troubled her to
remember that now, she wished she could take it back, it sounded so
unwomanly. She didn't want Laurie to think her a heartless, worldly
creature; she didn't care to be a queen of society now half so much as
she did to be a lovable woman; she was so glad he didn't hate her for
the dreadful things she said, but took them so beautifully, and was
kinder than ever. His letters were such a comfort, for the home letters
were very irregular, and were not half so satisfactory as his when they
did come. It was not only a pleasure, but a duty to answer them, for the
poor fellow was forlorn, and needed petting, since Jo persisted in being
stony-hearted. She ought to have made an effort, and tried to love him;
it couldn't be very hard, many people would be proud and glad to have
such a dear boy care for them; but Jo never would act like other girls,
so there was nothing to do but be very kind, and treat him like a
brother.

If all brothers were treated as well as Laurie was at this period, they
would be a much happier race of beings than they are. Amy never lectured
now; she asked his opinion on all subjects; she was interested in
everything he did, made charming little presents for him, and sent him
two letters a week, full of lively gossip, sisterly confidences, and
captivating sketches of the lovely scenes about her. As few brothers are
complimented by having their letters carried about in their sisters'
pockets, read and reread diligently, cried over when short, kissed when
long, and treasured carefully, we will not hint that Amy did any of
these fond and foolish things. But she certainly did grow a little pale
and pensive that spring, lost much of her relish for society, and went
out sketching alone a good deal. She never had much to show when she
came home, but was studying nature, I dare say, while she sat for hours,
with her hands folded, on the terrace at Valrosa, or absently sketched
any fancy that occurred to her,--a stalwart knight carved on a tomb, a
young man asleep in the grass, with his hat over his eyes, or a
curly-haired girl in gorgeous array, promenading down a ball-room on the
arm of a tall gentleman, both faces being left a blur according to the
last fashion in art, which was safe, but not altogether satisfactory.

Her aunt thought that she regretted her answer to Fred; and, finding
denials useless and explanations impossible, Amy left her to think what
she liked, taking care that Laurie should know that Fred had gone to
Egypt. That was all, but he understood it, and looked relieved, as he
said to himself, with a venerable air,--

"I was sure she would think better of it. Poor old fellow! I've been
through it all, and I can sympathize."

With that he heaved a great sigh, and then, as if he had discharged his
duty to the past, put his feet up on the sofa, and enjoyed Amy's letter
luxuriously.

While these changes were going on abroad, trouble had come at home; but
the letter telling that Beth was failing never reached Amy, and when the
next found her, the grass was green above her sister. The sad news met
her at Vevay, for the heat had driven them from Nice in May, and they
had travelled slowly to Switzerland, by way of Genoa and the Italian
lakes. She bore it very well, and quietly submitted to the family decree
that she should not shorten her visit, for, since it was too late to say
good-by to Beth, she had better stay, and let absence soften her sorrow.
But her heart was very heavy; she longed to be at home, and every day
looked wistfully across the lake, waiting for Laurie to come and comfort
her.

He did come very soon; for the same mail brought letters to them both,
but he was in Germany, and it took some days to reach him. The moment he
read it, he packed his knapsack, bade adieu to his fellow-pedestrians,
and was off to keep his promise, with a heart full of joy and sorrow,
hope and suspense.

He knew Vevay well; and as soon as the boat touched the little quay, he
hurried along the shore to La Tour, where the Carrols were living _en
pension_. The _garçon_ was in despair that the whole family had gone to
take a promenade on the lake; but no, the blond mademoiselle might be in
the chateau garden. If monsieur would give himself the pain of sitting
down, a flash of time should present her. But monsieur could not wait
even "a flash of time," and, in the middle of the speech, departed to
find mademoiselle himself.

A pleasant old garden on the borders of the lovely lake, with chestnuts
rustling overhead, ivy climbing everywhere, and the black shadow of the
tower falling far across the sunny water. At one corner of the wide, low
wall was a seat, and here Amy often came to read or work, or console
herself with the beauty all about her. She was sitting here that day,
leaning her head on her hand, with a homesick heart and heavy eyes,
thinking of Beth, and wondering why Laurie did not come. She did not
hear him cross the court-yard beyond, nor see him pause in the archway
that led from the subterranean path into the garden. He stood a minute,
looking at her with new eyes, seeing what no one had ever seen
before,--the tender side of Amy's character. Everything about her mutely
suggested love and sorrow,--the blotted letters in her lap, the black
ribbon that tied up her hair, the womanly pain and patience in her face;
even the little ebony cross at her throat seemed pathetic to Laurie, for
he had given it to her, and she wore it as her only ornament. If he had
any doubts about the reception she would give him, they were set at
rest the minute she looked up and saw him; for, dropping everything, she
ran to him, exclaiming, in a tone of unmistakable love and longing,--

"O Laurie, Laurie, I knew you'd come to me!"

          [Illustration: O Laurie, Laurie, I knew you'd come]

I think everything was said and settled then; for, as they stood
together quite silent for a moment, with the dark head bent down
protectingly over the light one, Amy felt that no one could comfort and
sustain her so well as Laurie, and Laurie decided that Amy was the only
woman in the world who could fill Jo's place, and make him happy. He did
not tell her so; but she was not disappointed, for both felt the truth,
were satisfied, and gladly left the rest to silence.

In a minute Amy went back to her place; and, while she dried her tears,
Laurie gathered up the scattered papers, finding in the sight of sundry
well-worn letters and suggestive sketches good omens for the future. As
he sat down beside her, Amy felt shy again, and turned rosy red at the
recollection of her impulsive greeting.

"I couldn't help it; I felt so lonely and sad, and was so very glad to
see you. It was such a surprise to look up and find you, just as I was
beginning to fear you wouldn't come," she said, trying in vain to speak
quite naturally.

"I came the minute I heard. I wish I could say something to comfort you
for the loss of dear little Beth; but I can only feel, and--" He could
not get any further, for he, too, turned bashful all of a sudden, and
did not quite know what to say. He longed to lay Amy's head down on his
shoulder, and tell her to have a good cry, but he did not dare; so took
her hand instead, and gave it a sympathetic squeeze that was better than
words.

"You needn't say anything; this comforts me," she said softly. "Beth is
well and happy, and I mustn't wish her back; but I dread the going home,
much as I long to see them all. We won't talk about it now, for it makes
me cry, and I want to enjoy you while you stay. You needn't go right
back, need you?"

"Not if you want me, dear."

"I do, so much. Aunt and Flo are very kind; but you seem like one of the
family, and it would be so comfortable to have you for a little while."

Amy spoke and looked so like a homesick child, whose heart was full,
that Laurie forgot his bashfulness all at once, and gave her just what
she wanted,--the petting she was used to and the cheerful conversation
she needed.

"Poor little soul, you look as if you'd grieved yourself half-sick! I'm
going to take care of you, so don't cry any more, but come and walk
about with me; the wind is too chilly for you to sit still," he said, in
the half-caressing, half-commanding way that Amy liked, as he tied on
her hat, drew her arm through his, and began to pace up and down the
sunny walk, under the new-leaved chestnuts. He felt more at ease upon
his legs; and Amy found it very pleasant to have a strong arm to lean
upon, a familiar face to smile at her, and a kind voice to talk
delightfully for her alone.

The quaint old garden had sheltered many pairs of lovers, and seemed
expressly made for them, so sunny and secluded was it, with nothing but
the tower to overlook them, and the wide lake to carry away the echo of
their words, as it rippled by below. For an hour this new pair walked
and talked, or rested on the wall, enjoying the sweet influences which
gave such a charm to time and place; and when an unromantic dinner-bell
warned them away, Amy felt as if she left her burden of loneliness and
sorrow behind her in the chateau garden.

The moment Mrs. Carrol saw the girl's altered face, she was illuminated
with a new idea, and exclaimed to herself, "Now I understand it
all,--the child has been pining for young Laurence. Bless my heart, I
never thought of such a thing!"

With praiseworthy discretion, the good lady said nothing, and betrayed
no sign of enlightenment; but cordially urged Laurie to stay, and begged
Amy to enjoy his society, for it would do her more good than so much
solitude. Amy was a model of docility; and, as her aunt was a good deal
occupied with Flo, she was left to entertain her friend, and did it with
more than her usual success.

At Nice, Laurie had lounged and Amy had scolded; at Vevay, Laurie was
never idle, but always walking, riding, boating, or studying, in the
most energetic manner, while Amy admired everything he did, and followed
his example as far and as fast as she could. He said the change was
owing to the climate, and she did not contradict him, being glad of a
like excuse for her own recovered health and spirits.

The invigorating air did them both good, and much exercise worked
wholesome changes in minds as well as bodies. They seemed to get clearer
views of life and duty up there among the everlasting hills; the fresh
winds blew away desponding doubts, delusive fancies, and moody mists;
the warm spring sunshine brought out all sorts of aspiring ideas, tender
hopes, and happy thoughts; the lake seemed to wash away the troubles of
the past, and the grand old mountains to look benignly down upon them,
saying, "Little children, love one another."

In spite of the new sorrow, it was a very happy time, so happy that
Laurie could not bear to disturb it by a word. It took him a little
while to recover from his surprise at the rapid cure of his first, and,
as he had firmly believed, his last and only love. He consoled himself
for the seeming disloyalty by the thought that Jo's sister was almost
the same as Jo's self, and the conviction that it would have been
impossible to love any other woman but Amy so soon and so well. His
first wooing had been of the tempestuous order, and he looked back upon
it as if through a long vista of years, with a feeling of compassion
blended with regret. He was not ashamed of it, but put it away as one of
the bitter-sweet experiences of his life, for which he could be grateful
when the pain was over. His second wooing he resolved should be as calm
and simple as possible; there was no need of having a scene, hardly any
need of telling Amy that he loved her; she knew it without words, and
had given him his answer long ago. It all came about so naturally that
no one could complain, and he knew that everybody would be pleased, even
Jo. But when our first little passion has been crushed, we are apt to be
wary and slow in making a second trial; so Laurie let the days pass,
enjoying every hour, and leaving to chance the utterance of the word
that would put an end to the first and sweetest part of his new romance.

He had rather imagined that the _dénouement_ would take place in the
chateau garden by moonlight, and in the most graceful and decorous
manner; but it turned out exactly the reverse, for the matter was
settled on the lake, at noonday, in a few blunt words. They had been
floating about all the morning, from gloomy St. Gingolf to sunny
Montreux, with the Alps of Savoy on one side, Mont St. Bernard and the
Dent du Midi on the other, pretty Vevay in the valley, and Lausanne upon
the hill beyond, a cloudless blue sky overhead, and the bluer lake
below, dotted with the picturesque boats that look like white-winged
gulls.

They had been talking of Bonnivard, as they glided past Chillon, and of
Rousseau, as they looked up at Clarens, where he wrote his "Héloise."
Neither had read it, but they knew it was a love-story, and each
privately wondered if it was half as interesting as their own. Amy had
been dabbling her hand in the water during the little pause that fell
between them, and, when she looked up, Laurie was leaning on his oars,
with an expression in his eyes that made her say hastily, merely for the
sake of saying something,--

"You must be tired; rest a little, and let me row; it will do me good;
for, since you came, I have been altogether lazy and luxurious."

"I'm not tired; but you may take an oar, if you like. There's room
enough, though I have to sit nearly in the middle, else the boat won't
trim," returned Laurie, as if he rather liked the arrangement.

Feeling that she had not mended matters much, Amy took the offered third
of a seat, shook her hair over her face, and accepted an oar. She rowed
as well as she did many other things; and, though she used both hands,
and Laurie but one, the oars kept time, and the boat went smoothly
through the water.

               [Illustration: How well we pull together]

"How well we pull together, don't we?" said Amy, who objected to silence
just then.

"So well that I wish we might always pull in the same boat. Will you,
Amy?" very tenderly.

"Yes, Laurie," very low.

Then they both stopped rowing, and unconsciously added a pretty little
_tableau_ of human love and happiness to the dissolving views reflected
in the lake.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Laurie takes the lecture that Amy gave him to heart. He goes back to his grandfather and thinks about how he could do something useful with his life. Laurie begins to realize that his love for Jo is cooling. He wants her to respect him, but isn't desperate for her love anymore. At first, Laurie turns to composing music. He tries to write a really sad and pathetic song about Jo, but somehow he's always humming cheerful music instead. Next Laurie tries to write an opera. He's trying to make Jo into the heroine, but somehow he finds himself writing about a sweeter, more delicate, more blonde sort of woman. A woman like...Amy, perhaps? Laurie goes around in a fog for a while, writing about this blonde heroine and wondering what it is that seems to be simmering inside him. Is it genius? Well, maybe. One day, Laurie comes home from seeing a Mozart opera and realizes that his own operatic compositions are nothing in comparison. He decides to stop trying to compose music and turn his attention to something else. Laurie wishes that he weren't too rich to need a job. He realizes that he needs to stay busy so that he doesn't become idle or immoral. We're not all that sympathetic: if only we had the same problem of too much money and leisure time! The narrator speculates about Laurie's behavior. Most novelists might have him go through a period of dissipation, where he spends too much money and gambles and sleeps around. But, the narrator tells us, his promises to his grandfather and the influence of the March girls keeps him from doing anything immoral. Laurie's romantic love for Jo finally disappears entirely. At first he resists this change, but then he admits to himself that he just feels a brotherly love for her now. Laurie compares his changing affections to Mozart's life. Mozart fell in love with a woman who didn't want to marry him, so he married her sister instead and was perfectly happy. This gives Laurie an idea. Before giving up, Laurie writes one more letter to Jo asking if she'll relent and marry him. She writes back telling him "no" once again - and also telling him that Beth is getting worse. Jo asks Laurie to comfort Amy for the coming loss of her sister. Laurie writes to Amy and they begin corresponding regularly - but Laurie won't go and visit her until she asks him. Meanwhile, Fred Vaughn has come back and asked Amy to marry him - and she has refused. Amy is starting to care a lot about Laurie's good opinion of her. She writes him letters twice a week and tells him about everything going on in her life. She tells him that she loves him like a brother, but...you get the idea. Amy goes around making sketches of knights and young men. The sketches are faceless, since that's fashionable at the moment - and also convenient for concealing who she's really thinking about. In one of her letters, Amy tells Laurie that Fred has gone to Egypt. Laurie understands that this means Amy has refused his proposal of marriage. One day, the news arrives that Beth has died. It's too late for Amy to do anything about it or to come home for the funeral, so her family tells her to stay in Europe. When Laurie gets the news of Beth's death, he rushes from Paris to Vevey, where the Carrols are living, in order to comfort Amy. Amy, sitting alone in a garden and mourning for Beth, is overjoyed to see Laurie. She feels like he can sympathize with her loss more than her aunt, uncle, and cousin, and she's also just glad to have him around! As soon as Amy and Laurie see each other, they know they're in love. But they still have to be prim and proper about everything. As they sit down on a bench in the garden and begin to talk, Laurie sees some of Amy's sketches and figures out how she is feeling. Laurie begins taking care of Amy, being kind and also a bit commanding. He makes her walk in the garden to stay warm in the cold wind, and they talk about Beth. When Amy and Laurie come back, Aunt Carrol realizes that Amy is in love with Laurie instead of Fred. She doesn't talk to Amy about it - just starts spending more time with her daughter Flo and tactfully leaving Amy and Laurie alone together. Amy and Laurie are very active, going for walks, rowing on the river, and spending a lot of time together. The weather is great, the place is beautiful, and the whole world is basically nudging them and winking. Laurie decides that his second romance is going to be more calm and decorous than the first. He doesn't make a scene or declare his love for Amy; he just spends time with her and is sweet to her. One afternoon, Laurie and Amy are rowing a boat together on the lake. Amy says they row well together, and Laurie asks if she'll "row" with him all their lives. And, of course, she says yes. If you're wondering, yes, that means they're engaged now!


prompt:
Chapter: XLII. ALL ALONE.

It was easy to promise self-abnegation when self was wrapped up in
another, and heart and soul were purified by a sweet example; but when
the helpful voice was silent, the daily lesson over, the beloved
presence gone, and nothing remained but loneliness and grief, then Jo
found her promise very hard to keep. How could she "comfort father and
mother," when her own heart ached with a ceaseless longing for her
sister; how could she "make the house cheerful," when all its light and
warmth and beauty seemed to have deserted it when Beth left the old home
for the new; and where in all the world could she "find some useful,
happy work to do," that would take the place of the loving service which
had been its own reward? She tried in a blind, hopeless way to do her
duty, secretly rebelling against it all the while, for it seemed unjust
that her few joys should be lessened, her burdens made heavier, and life
get harder and harder as she toiled along. Some people seemed to get all
sunshine, and some all shadow; it was not fair, for she tried more than
Amy to be good, but never got any reward, only disappointment, trouble,
and hard work.

Poor Jo, these were dark days to her, for something like despair came
over her when she thought of spending all her life in that quiet house,
devoted to humdrum cares, a few small pleasures, and the duty that never
seemed to grow any easier. "I can't do it. I wasn't meant for a life
like this, and I know I shall break away and do something desperate if
somebody don't come and help me," she said to herself, when her first
efforts failed, and she fell into the moody, miserable state of mind
which often comes when strong wills have to yield to the inevitable.

But some one did come and help her, though Jo did not recognize her good
angels at once, because they wore familiar shapes, and used the simple
spells best fitted to poor humanity. Often she started up at night,
thinking Beth called her; and when the sight of the little empty bed
made her cry with the bitter cry of an unsubmissive sorrow, "O Beth,
come back! come back!" she did not stretch out her yearning arms in
vain; for, as quick to hear her sobbing as she had been to hear her
sister's faintest whisper, her mother came to comfort her, not with
words only, but the patient tenderness that soothes by a touch, tears
that were mute reminders of a greater grief than Jo's, and broken
whispers, more eloquent than prayers, because hopeful resignation went
hand-in-hand with natural sorrow. Sacred moments, when heart talked to
heart in the silence of the night, turning affliction to a blessing,
which chastened grief and strengthened love. Feeling this, Jo's burden
seemed easier to bear, duty grew sweeter, and life looked more
endurable, seen from the safe shelter of her mother's arms.

When aching heart was a little comforted, troubled mind likewise found
help; for one day she went to the study, and, leaning over the good gray
head lifted to welcome her with a tranquil smile, she said, very
humbly,--

"Father, talk to me as you did to Beth. I need it more than she did, for
I'm all wrong."

"My dear, nothing can comfort me like this," he answered, with a falter
in his voice, and both arms round her, as if he, too, needed help, and
did not fear to ask it.

                   [Illustration: Jo and her father]

Then, sitting in Beth's little chair close beside him, Jo told her
troubles,--the resentful sorrow for her loss, the fruitless efforts that
discouraged her, the want of faith that made life look so dark, and all
the sad bewilderment which we call despair. She gave him entire
confidence, he gave her the help she needed, and both found consolation
in the act; for the time had come when they could talk together not only
as father and daughter, but as man and woman, able and glad to serve
each other with mutual sympathy as well as mutual love. Happy,
thoughtful times there in the old study which Jo called "the church of
one member," and from which she came with fresh courage, recovered
cheerfulness, and a more submissive spirit; for the parents who had
taught one child to meet death without fear, were trying now to teach
another to accept life without despondency or distrust, and to use its
beautiful opportunities with gratitude and power.

Other helps had Jo,--humble, wholesome duties and delights that would
not be denied their part in serving her, and which she slowly learned to
see and value. Brooms and dishcloths never could be as distasteful as
they once had been, for Beth had presided over both; and something of
her housewifely spirit seemed to linger round the little mop and the old
brush, that was never thrown away. As she used them, Jo found herself
humming the songs Beth used to hum, imitating Beth's orderly ways, and
giving the little touches here and there that kept everything fresh and
cosey, which was the first step toward making home happy, though she
didn't know it, till Hannah said with an approving squeeze of the
hand,--

"You thoughtful creter, you're determined we sha'n't miss that dear lamb
ef you can help it. We don't say much, but we see it, and the Lord will
bless you for't, see ef He don't."

As they sat sewing together, Jo discovered how much improved her sister
Meg was; how well she could talk, how much she knew about good, womanly
impulses, thoughts, and feelings, how happy she was in husband and
children, and how much they were all doing for each other.

"Marriage is an excellent thing, after all. I wonder if I should blossom
out half as well as you have, if I tried it?" said Jo, as she
constructed a kite for Demi, in the topsy-turvy nursery.

"It's just what you need to bring out the tender, womanly half of your
nature, Jo. You are like a chestnut-burr, prickly outside, but
silky-soft within, and a sweet kernel, if one can only get at it. Love
will make you show your heart some day, and then the rough burr will
fall off."

"Frost opens chestnut-burrs, ma'am, and it takes a good shake to bring
them down. Boys go nutting, and I don't care to be bagged by them,"
returned Jo, pasting away at the kite which no wind that blows would
ever carry up, for Daisy had tied herself on as a bob.

Meg laughed, for she was glad to see a glimmer of Jo's old spirit, but
she felt it her duty to enforce her opinion by every argument in her
power; and the sisterly chats were not wasted, especially as two of
Meg's most effective arguments were the babies, whom Jo loved tenderly.
Grief is the best opener for some hearts, and Jo's was nearly ready for
the bag: a little more sunshine to ripen the nut, then, not a boy's
impatient shake, but a man's hand reached up to pick it gently from the
burr, and find the kernel sound and sweet. If she had suspected this,
she would have shut up tight, and been more prickly than ever;
fortunately she wasn't thinking about herself, so, when the time came,
down she dropped.

Now, if she had been the heroine of a moral story-book, she ought at
this period of her life to have become quite saintly, renounced the
world, and gone about doing good in a mortified bonnet, with tracts in
her pocket. But, you see, Jo wasn't a heroine; she was only a struggling
human girl, like hundreds of others, and she just acted out her nature,
being sad, cross, listless, or energetic, as the mood suggested. It's
highly virtuous to say we'll be good, but we can't do it all at once,
and it takes a long pull, a strong pull, and a pull all together,
before some of us even get our feet set in the right way. Jo had got so
far, she was learning to do her duty, and to feel unhappy if she did
not; but to do it cheerfully--ah, that was another thing! She had often
said she wanted to do something splendid, no matter how hard; and now
she had her wish, for what could be more beautiful than to devote her
life to father and mother, trying to make home as happy to them as they
had to her? And, if difficulties were necessary to increase the splendor
of the effort, what could be harder for a restless, ambitious girl than
to give up her own hopes, plans, and desires, and cheerfully live for
others?

Providence had taken her at her word; here was the task, not what she
had expected, but better, because self had no part in it: now, could she
do it? She decided that she would try; and, in her first attempt, she
found the helps I have suggested. Still another was given her, and she
took it, not as a reward, but as a comfort, as Christian took the
refreshment afforded by the little arbor where he rested, as he climbed
the hill called Difficulty.

"Why don't you write? That always used to make you happy," said her
mother, once, when the desponding fit overshadowed Jo.

"I've no heart to write, and if I had, nobody cares for my things."

"We do; write something for us, and never mind the rest of the world.
Try it, dear; I'm sure it would do you good, and please us very much."

"Don't believe I can;" but Jo got out her desk, and began to overhaul
her half-finished manuscripts.

An hour afterward her mother peeped in, and there she was, scratching
away, with her black pinafore on, and an absorbed expression, which
caused Mrs. March to smile, and slip away, well pleased with the success
of her suggestion. Jo never knew how it happened, but something got into
that story that went straight to the hearts of those who read it; for,
when her family had laughed and cried over it, her father sent it, much
against her will, to one of the popular magazines, and, to her utter
surprise, it was not only paid for, but others requested. Letters from
several persons, whose praise was honor, followed the appearance of the
little story, newspapers copied it, and strangers as well as friends
admired it. For a small thing it was a great success; and Jo was more
astonished than when her novel was commended and condemned all at once.

"I don't understand it. What _can_ there be in a simple little story
like that, to make people praise it so?" she said, quite bewildered.

"There is truth in it, Jo, that's the secret; humor and pathos make it
alive, and you have found your style at last. You wrote with no thought
of fame or money, and put your heart into it, my daughter; you have had
the bitter, now comes the sweet. Do your best, and grow as happy as we
are in your success."

"If there _is_ anything good or true in what I write, it isn't mine; I
owe it all to you and mother and to Beth," said Jo, more touched by her
father's words than by any amount of praise from the world.

So, taught by love and sorrow, Jo wrote her little stories, and sent
them away to make friends for themselves and her, finding it a very
charitable world to such humble wanderers; for they were kindly
welcomed, and sent home comfortable tokens to their mother, like dutiful
children whom good fortune overtakes.

When Amy and Laurie wrote of their engagement, Mrs. March feared that Jo
would find it difficult to rejoice over it, but her fears were soon set
at rest; for, though Jo looked grave at first, she took it very quietly,
and was full of hopes and plans for "the children" before she read the
letter twice. It was a sort of written duet, wherein each glorified the
other in lover-like fashion, very pleasant to read and satisfactory to
think of, for no one had any objection to make.

"You like it, mother?" said Jo, as they laid down the closely written
sheets, and looked at one another.

"Yes, I hoped it would be so, ever since Amy wrote that she had refused
Fred. I felt sure then that something better than what you call the
'mercenary spirit' had come over her, and a hint here and there in her
letters made me suspect that love and Laurie would win the day."

"How sharp you are, Marmee, and how silent! You never said a word to
me."

"Mothers have need of sharp eyes and discreet tongues when they have
girls to manage. I was half afraid to put the idea into your head, lest
you should write and congratulate them before the thing was settled."

"I'm not the scatter-brain I was; you may trust me, I'm sober and
sensible enough for any one's _confidante_ now."

"So you are, dear, and I should have made you mine, only I fancied it
might pain you to learn that your Teddy loved any one else."

"Now, mother, did you really think I could be so silly and selfish,
after I'd refused his love, when it was freshest, if not best?"

"I knew you were sincere then, Jo, but lately I have thought that if he
came back, and asked again, you might, perhaps, feel like giving another
answer. Forgive me, dear, I can't help seeing that you are very lonely,
and sometimes there is a hungry look in your eyes that goes to my heart;
so I fancied that your boy might fill the empty place if he tried now."

"No, mother, it is better as it is, and I'm glad Amy has learned to love
him. But you are right in one thing: I _am_ lonely, and perhaps if Teddy
had tried again, I might have said 'Yes,' not because I love him any
more, but because I care more to be loved than when he went away."

"I'm glad of that, Jo, for it shows that you are getting on. There are
plenty to love you, so try to be satisfied with father and mother,
sisters and brothers, friends and babies, till the best lover of all
comes to give you your reward."

"Mothers are the _best_ lovers in the world; but I don't mind whispering
to Marmee that I'd like to try all kinds. It's very curious, but the
more I try to satisfy myself with all sorts of natural affections, the
more I seem to want. I'd no idea hearts could take in so many; mine is
so elastic, it never seems full now, and I used to be quite contented
with my family. I don't understand it."

"I do;" and Mrs. March smiled her wise smile, as Jo turned back the
leaves to read what Amy said of Laurie.

"It is so beautiful to be loved as Laurie loves me; he isn't
sentimental, doesn't say much about it, but I see and feel it in all he
says and does, and it makes me so happy and so humble that I don't seem
to be the same girl I was. I never knew how good and generous and tender
he was till now, for he lets me read his heart, and I find it full of
noble impulses and hopes and purposes, and am so proud to know it's
mine. He says he feels as if he 'could make a prosperous voyage now
with me aboard as mate, and lots of love for ballast.' I pray he may,
and try to be all he believes me, for I love my gallant captain with all
my heart and soul and might, and never will desert him, while God lets
us be together. O mother, I never knew how much like heaven this world
could be, when two people love and live for one another!"

"And that's our cool, reserved, and worldly Amy! Truly, love does work
miracles. How very, very happy they must be!" And Jo laid the rustling
sheets together with a careful hand, as one might shut the covers of a
lovely romance, which holds the reader fast till the end comes, and he
finds himself alone in the work-a-day world again.

By and by Jo roamed away upstairs, for it was rainy, and she could not
walk. A restless spirit possessed her, and the old feeling came again,
not bitter as it once was, but a sorrowfully patient wonder why one
sister should have all she asked, the other nothing. It was not true;
she knew that, and tried to put it away, but the natural craving for
affection was strong, and Amy's happiness woke the hungry longing for
some one to "love with heart and soul, and cling to while God let them
be together."

Up in the garret, where Jo's unquiet wanderings ended, stood four little
wooden chests in a row, each marked with its owner's name, and each
filled with relics of the childhood and girlhood ended now for all. Jo
glanced into them, and when she came to her own, leaned her chin on the
edge, and stared absently at the chaotic collection, till a bundle of
old exercise-books caught her eye. She drew them out, turned them over,
and re-lived that pleasant winter at kind Mrs. Kirke's. She had smiled
at first, then she looked thoughtful, next sad, and when she came to a
little message written in the Professor's hand, her lips began to
tremble, the books slid out of her lap, and she sat looking at the
friendly words, as if they took a new meaning, and touched a tender spot
in her heart.

"Wait for me, my friend. I may be a little late, but I shall surely
come."

"Oh, if he only would! So kind, so good, so patient with me always; my
dear old Fritz, I didn't value him half enough when I had him, but now
how I should love to see him, for every one seems going away from me,
and I'm all alone."

And holding the little paper fast, as if it were a promise yet to be
fulfilled, Jo laid her head down on a comfortable rag-bag, and cried, as
if in opposition to the rain pattering on the roof.

  [Illustration: Jo laid her head on a comfortable rag-bag and cried]

Was it all self-pity, loneliness, or low spirits? or was it the waking
up of a sentiment which had bided its time as patiently as its inspirer?
Who shall say?

     [Illustration: A substantial lifelike ghost leaning over her]

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: In the wake of Beth's death, Jo finds it difficult to keep her promise to comfort her parents and take her sister's place in the home. Jo often wakes up in the night and cries, grieving for Beth. Her mother hears her and comes to comfort her each time. During the day, Jo has long conversations with her father. She tells him how difficult it is for her to cope with losing her sister and with resigning herself to her domestic tasks. He consoles and counsels her. They're finally able to talk about things as equal adults, as well as father and daughter. Jo is also comforted by doing simple domestic chores and thinking of the way that Beth did them. Hannah thanks Jo for taking Beth's place as a housekeeper. One day, Jo and Meg are sitting together and sewing. Jo realizes how much Meg has grown as a person after her marriage. Another day, Jo is helping Meg in the nursery, making kite for Demi. She asks Meg if marriage would suit her, too. Meg thinks that marriage would be great for Jo and that it would help bring out her softer, more feminine side. She thinks Jo is like a chestnut burr - prickly on the outside, but soft on the inside. Jo and Meg continue to have lots of sisterly chats about marriage and children. As Jo watches Meg's domestic life, she starts to wish that she were also married and that she could have kids of her own. The narrator notes that, if Jo was a heroine in a moral story, then at this point she'd do everything perfectly and be happy and content. But she's not a heroine - she's a regular person, and so things are more difficult for her. Marmee suggests that Jo take up writing again, because it always made her happy in the past. Jo agrees to try writing, although she intends to write something personal this time, not for a wider audience. The story that Jo writes is published in a magazine and receives rave reviews. She doesn't understand why, and her father says it's because the story is so true to life. Jo thinks that her life experiences - her love for Beth, her grief at Beth's death, and her closer connection to her parents - have made her a better writer. She keeps writing stories and they continue to be received well. Amy and Laurie write to the Marches to announce that they are engaged. Marmee worries that Jo will be upset by this, but she's pleasantly surprised to discover that Jo is happy for them. Jo says that she can be happy with the kinds of love in her life - love from her parents, friends, and family - but that she wouldn't mind a romance, too. Jo and Marmee read Amy's description of the selfless love that she and Laurie feel for one another. They feel very happy for the young couple, and Jo hopes to experience that kind of love herself one day. Jo feels restless and goes up into the attic. She rummages through her possessions and comes across some notebooks from the winter she spent in New York. In one of the notebooks, she finds a message from Mr. Bhaer, saying that he is going to be late but will eventually come. Originally, it was just a note to let her know he'd be late for something in New York, but now it seems like foreshadowing! Jo, full of complicated feelings, begins to cry.