prompt:
Chapter: XXXIV. A FRIEND

Though very happy in the social atmosphere about her, and very busy with
the daily work that earned her bread, and made it sweeter for the
effort, Jo still found time for literary labors. The purpose which now
took possession of her was a natural one to a poor and ambitious girl;
but the means she took to gain her end were not the best. She saw that
money conferred power: money and power, therefore, she resolved to have;
not to be used for herself alone, but for those whom she loved more than
self.

The dream of filling home with comforts, giving Beth everything she
wanted, from strawberries in winter to an organ in her bedroom; going
abroad herself, and always having _more_ than enough, so that she might
indulge in the luxury of charity, had been for years Jo's most cherished
castle in the air.

The prize-story experience had seemed to open a way which might, after
long travelling and much up-hill work lead to this delightful _château
en Espagne_. But the novel disaster quenched her courage for a time, for
public opinion is a giant which has frightened stouter-hearted Jacks on
bigger bean-stalks than hers. Like that immortal hero, she reposed
awhile after the first attempt, which resulted in a tumble, and the
least lovely of the giant's treasures, if I remember rightly. But the
"up again and take another" spirit was as strong in Jo as in Jack; so
she scrambled up, on the shady side this time, and got more booty, but
nearly left behind her what was far more precious than the money-bags.

She took to writing sensation stories; for in those dark ages, even
all-perfect America read rubbish. She told no one, but concocted a
"thrilling tale," and boldly carried it herself to Mr. Dashwood, editor
of the "Weekly Volcano." She had never read "Sartor Resartus," but she
had a womanly instinct that clothes possess an influence more powerful
over many than the worth of character or the magic of manners. So she
dressed herself in her best, and, trying to persuade herself that she
was neither excited nor nervous, bravely climbed two pairs of dark and
dirty stairs to find herself in a disorderly room, a cloud of
cigar-smoke, and the presence of three gentlemen, sitting with their
heels rather higher than their hats, which articles of dress none of
them took the trouble to remove on her appearance. Somewhat daunted by
this reception, Jo hesitated on the threshold, murmuring in much
embarrassment,--

"Excuse me, I was looking for the 'Weekly Volcano' office; I wished to
see Mr. Dashwood."

Down went the highest pair of heels, up rose the smokiest gentleman,
and, carefully cherishing his cigar between his fingers, he advanced,
with a nod, and a countenance expressive of nothing but sleep. Feeling
that she must get through the matter somehow, Jo produced her
manuscript, and, blushing redder and redder with each sentence,
blundered out fragments of the little speech carefully prepared for the
occasion.

"A friend of mine desired me to offer--a story--just as an
experiment--would like your opinion--be glad to write more if this
suits."

While she blushed and blundered, Mr. Dashwood had taken the manuscript,
and was turning over the leaves with a pair of rather dirty fingers, and
casting critical glances up and down the neat pages.

"Not a first attempt, I take it?" observing that the pages were
numbered, covered only on one side, and not tied up with a ribbon,--sure
sign of a novice.

"No, sir; she has had some experience, and got a prize for a tale in the
'Blarneystone Banner.'"

"Oh, did she?" and Mr. Dashwood gave Jo a quick look, which seemed to
take note of everything she had on, from the bow in her bonnet to the
buttons on her boots. "Well, you can leave it, if you like. We've more
of this sort of thing on hand than we know what to do with at present;
but I'll run my eye over it, and give you an answer next week."

Now, Jo did _not_ like to leave it, for Mr. Dashwood didn't suit her at
all; but, under the circumstances, there was nothing for her to do but
bow and walk away, looking particularly tall and dignified, as she was
apt to do when nettled or abashed. Just then she was both; for it was
perfectly evident, from the knowing glances exchanged among the
gentlemen, that her little fiction of "my friend" was considered a good
joke; and a laugh, produced by some inaudible remark of the editor, as
he closed the door, completed her discomfiture. Half resolving never to
return, she went home, and worked off her irritation by stitching
pinafores vigorously; and in an hour or two was cool enough to laugh
over the scene, and long for next week.

When she went again, Mr. Dashwood was alone, whereat she rejoiced; Mr.
Dashwood was much wider awake than before, which was agreeable; and Mr.
Dashwood was not too deeply absorbed in a cigar to remember his manners:
so the second interview was much more comfortable than the first.

"We'll take this" (editors never say I), "if you don't object to a few
alterations. It's too long, but omitting the passages I've marked will
make it just the right length," he said, in a business-like tone.

Jo hardly knew her own MS. again, so crumpled and underscored were its
pages and paragraphs; but, feeling as a tender parent might on being
asked to cut off her baby's legs in order that it might fit into a new
cradle, she looked at the marked passages, and was surprised to find
that all the moral reflections--which she had carefully put in as
ballast for much romance--had been stricken out.

"But, sir, I thought every story should have some sort of a moral, so I
took care to have a few of my sinners repent."

Mr. Dashwood's editorial gravity relaxed into a smile, for Jo had
forgotten her "friend," and spoken as only an author could.

"People want to be amused, not preached at, you know. Morals don't sell
nowadays;" which was not quite a correct statement, by the way.

"You think it would do with these alterations, then?"

"Yes; it's a new plot, and pretty well worked up--language good, and so
on," was Mr. Dashwood's affable reply.

"What do you--that is, what compensation--" began Jo, not exactly
knowing how to express herself.

"Oh, yes, well, we give from twenty-five to thirty for things of this
sort. Pay when it comes out," returned Mr. Dashwood, as if that point
had escaped him; such trifles often do escape the editorial mind, it is
said.

"Very well; you can have it," said Jo, handing back the story, with a
satisfied air; for, after the dollar-a-column work, even twenty-five
seemed good pay.

"Shall I tell my friend you will take another if she has one better than
this?" asked Jo, unconscious of her little slip of the tongue, and
emboldened by her success.

"Well, we'll look at it; can't promise to take it. Tell her to make it
short and spicy, and never mind the moral. What name would your friend
like to put to it?" in a careless tone.

"None at all, if you please; she doesn't wish her name to appear, and
has no _nom de plume_," said Jo, blushing in spite of herself.

"Just as she likes, of course. The tale will be out next week; will you
call for the money, or shall I send it?" asked Mr. Dashwood, who felt a
natural desire to know who his new contributor might be.

"I'll call. Good morning, sir."

As she departed, Mr. Dashwood put up his feet, with the graceful remark,
"Poor and proud, as usual, but she'll do."

Following Mr. Dashwood's directions, and making Mrs. Northbury her
model, Jo rashly took a plunge into the frothy sea of sensational
literature; but, thanks to the life-preserver thrown her by a friend,
she came up again, not much the worse for her ducking.

Like most young scribblers, she went abroad for her characters and
scenery; and banditti, counts, gypsies, nuns, and duchesses appeared
upon her stage, and played their parts with as much accuracy and spirit
as could be expected. Her readers were not particular about such trifles
as grammar, punctuation, and probability, and Mr. Dashwood graciously
permitted her to fill his columns at the lowest prices, not thinking it
necessary to tell her that the real cause of his hospitality was the
fact that one of his hacks, on being offered higher wages, had basely
left him in the lurch.

She soon became interested in her work, for her emaciated purse grew
stout, and the little hoard she was making to take Beth to the mountains
next summer grew slowly but surely as the weeks passed. One thing
disturbed her satisfaction, and that was that she did not tell them at
home. She had a feeling that father and mother would not approve, and
preferred to have her own way first, and beg pardon afterward. It was
easy to keep her secret, for no name appeared with her stories; Mr.
Dashwood had, of course, found it out very soon, but promised to be
dumb; and, for a wonder, kept his word.

She thought it would do her no harm, for she sincerely meant to write
nothing of which she should be ashamed, and quieted all pricks of
conscience by anticipations of the happy minute when she should show her
earnings and laugh over her well-kept secret.

But Mr. Dashwood rejected any but thrilling tales; and, as thrills could
not be produced except by harrowing up the souls of the readers, history
and romance, land and sea, science and art, police records and lunatic
asylums, had to be ransacked for the purpose. Jo soon found that her
innocent experience had given her but few glimpses of the tragic world
which underlies society; so, regarding it in a business light, she set
about supplying her deficiencies with characteristic energy. Eager to
find material for stories, and bent on making them original in plot, if
not masterly in execution, she searched newspapers for accidents,
incidents, and crimes; she excited the suspicions of public librarians
by asking for works on poisons; she studied faces in the street, and
characters, good, bad, and indifferent, all about her; she delved in the
dust of ancient times for facts or fictions so old that they were as
good as new, and introduced herself to folly, sin, and misery, as well
as her limited opportunities allowed. She thought she was prospering
finely; but, unconsciously, she was beginning to desecrate some of the
womanliest attributes of a woman's character. She was living in bad
society; and, imaginary though it was, its influence affected her, for
she was feeding heart and fancy on dangerous and unsubstantial food, and
was fast brushing the innocent bloom from her nature by a premature
acquaintance with the darker side of life, which comes soon enough to
all of us.

She was beginning to feel rather than see this, for much describing of
other people's passions and feelings set her to studying and speculating
about her own,--a morbid amusement, in which healthy young minds do not
voluntarily indulge. Wrong-doing always brings its own punishment; and,
when Jo most needed hers, she got it.

I don't know whether the study of Shakespeare helped her to read
character, or the natural instinct of a woman for what was honest,
brave, and strong; but while endowing her imaginary heroes with every
perfection under the sun, Jo was discovering a live hero, who interested
her in spite of many human imperfections. Mr. Bhaer, in one of their
conversations, had advised her to study simple, true, and lovely
characters, wherever she found them, as good training for a writer. Jo
took him at his word, for she coolly turned round and studied him,--a
proceeding which would have much surprised him, had he known it, for the
worthy Professor was very humble in his own conceit.

Why everybody liked him was what puzzled Jo, at first. He was neither
rich nor great, young nor handsome; in no respect what is called
fascinating, imposing, or brilliant; and yet he was as attractive as a
genial fire, and people seemed to gather about him as naturally as about
a warm hearth. He was poor, yet always appeared to be giving something
away; a stranger, yet every one was his friend; no longer young, but as
happy-hearted as a boy; plain and peculiar, yet his face looked
beautiful to many, and his oddities were freely forgiven for his sake.
Jo often watched him, trying to discover the charm, and, at last,
decided that it was benevolence which worked the miracle. If he had any
sorrow, "it sat with its head under its wing," and he turned only his
sunny side to the world. There were lines upon his forehead, but Time
seemed to have touched him gently, remembering how kind he was to
others. The pleasant curves about his mouth were the memorials of many
friendly words and cheery laughs; his eyes were never cold or hard, and
his big hand had a warm, strong grasp that was more expressive than
words.

His very clothes seemed to partake of the hospitable nature of the
wearer. They looked as if they were at ease, and liked to make him
comfortable; his capacious waistcoat was suggestive of a large heart
underneath; his rusty coat had a social air, and the baggy pockets
plainly proved that little hands often went in empty and came out full;
his very boots were benevolent, and his collars never stiff and raspy
like other people's.

"That's it!" said Jo to herself, when she at length discovered that
genuine good-will towards one's fellow-men could beautify and dignify
even a stout German teacher, who shovelled in his dinner, darned his own
socks, and was burdened with the name of Bhaer.

Jo valued goodness highly, but she also possessed a most feminine
respect for intellect, and a little discovery which she made about the
Professor added much to her regard for him. He never spoke of himself,
and no one ever knew that in his native city he had been a man much
honored and esteemed for learning and integrity, till a countryman came
to see him, and, in a conversation with Miss Norton, divulged the
pleasing fact. From her Jo learned it, and liked it all the better
because Mr. Bhaer had never told it. She felt proud to know that he was
an honored Professor in Berlin, though only a poor language-master in
America; and his homely, hard-working life was much beautified by the
spice of romance which this discovery gave it.

Another and a better gift than intellect was shown her in a most
unexpected manner. Miss Norton had the _entrée_ into literary society,
which Jo would have had no chance of seeing but for her. The solitary
woman felt an interest in the ambitious girl, and kindly conferred many
favors of this sort both on Jo and the Professor. She took them with
her, one night, to a select symposium, held in honor of several
celebrities.

                   [Illustration: A select symposium]

Jo went prepared to bow down and adore the mighty ones whom she had
worshipped with youthful enthusiasm afar off. But her reverence for
genius received a severe shock that night, and it took her some time to
recover from the discovery that the great creatures were only men and
women after all. Imagine her dismay, on stealing a glance of timid
admiration at the poet whose lines suggested an ethereal being fed on
"spirit, fire, and dew," to behold him devouring his supper with an
ardor which flushed his intellectual countenance. Turning as from a
fallen idol, she made other discoveries which rapidly dispelled her
romantic illusions. The great novelist vibrated between two decanters
with the regularity of a pendulum; the famous divine flirted openly with
one of the Madame de Staëls of the age, who looked daggers at another
Corinne, who was amiably satirizing her, after out-manœuvring her in
efforts to absorb the profound philosopher, who imbibed tea Johnsonianly
and appeared to slumber, the loquacity of the lady rendering speech
impossible. The scientific celebrities, forgetting their mollusks and
glacial periods, gossiped about art, while devoting themselves to
oysters and ices with characteristic energy; the young musician, who was
charming the city like a second Orpheus, talked horses; and the specimen
of the British nobility present happened to be the most ordinary man of
the party.

Before the evening was half over, Jo felt so completely _désillusionée_,
that she sat down in a corner to recover herself. Mr. Bhaer soon joined
her, looking rather out of his element, and presently several of the
philosophers, each mounted on his hobby, came ambling up to hold an
intellectual tournament in the recess. The conversation was miles beyond
Jo's comprehension, but she enjoyed it, though Kant and Hegel were
unknown gods, the Subjective and Objective unintelligible terms; and the
only thing "evolved from her inner consciousness," was a bad headache
after it was all over. It dawned upon her gradually that the world was
being picked to pieces, and put together on new, and, according to the
talkers, on infinitely better principles than before; that religion was
in a fair way to be reasoned into nothingness, and intellect was to be
the only God. Jo knew nothing about philosophy or metaphysics of any
sort, but a curious excitement, half pleasurable, half painful, came
over her, as she listened with a sense of being turned adrift into time
and space, like a young balloon out on a holiday.

She looked round to see how the Professor liked it, and found him
looking at her with the grimmest expression she had ever seen him wear.
He shook his head, and beckoned her to come away; but she was
fascinated, just then, by the freedom of Speculative Philosophy, and
kept her seat, trying to find out what the wise gentlemen intended to
rely upon after they had annihilated all the old beliefs.

Now, Mr. Bhaer was a diffident man, and slow to offer his own opinions,
not because they were unsettled, but too sincere and earnest to be
lightly spoken. As he glanced from Jo to several other young people,
attracted by the brilliancy of the philosophic pyrotechnics, he knit his
brows, and longed to speak, fearing that some inflammable young soul
would be led astray by the rockets, to find, when the display was over,
that they had only an empty stick or a scorched hand.

He bore it as long as he could; but when he was appealed to for an
opinion, he blazed up with honest indignation, and defended religion
with all the eloquence of truth,--an eloquence which made his broken
English musical, and his plain face beautiful. He had a hard fight, for
the wise men argued well; but he didn't know when he was beaten, and
stood to his colors like a man. Somehow, as he talked, the world got
right again to Jo; the old beliefs, that had lasted so long, seemed
better than the new; God was not a blind force, and immortality was not
a pretty fable, but a blessed fact. She felt as if she had solid ground
under her feet again; and when Mr. Bhaer paused, out-talked, but not one
whit convinced, Jo wanted to clap her hands and thank him.

She did neither; but she remembered this scene, and gave the Professor
her heartiest respect, for she knew it cost him an effort to speak out
then and there, because his conscience would not let him be silent. She
began to see that character is a better possession than money, rank,
intellect, or beauty; and to feel that if greatness is what a wise man
has defined it to be, "truth, reverence, and good-will," then her friend
Friedrich Bhaer was not only good, but great.

This belief strengthened daily. She valued his esteem, she coveted his
respect, she wanted to be worthy of his friendship; and, just when the
wish was sincerest, she came near losing everything. It all grew out of
a cocked hat; for one evening the Professor came in to give Jo her
lesson, with a paper soldier-cap on his head, which Tina had put there,
and he had forgotten to take off.

"It's evident he doesn't look in his glass before coming down," thought
Jo, with a smile, as he said "Goot efening," and sat soberly down, quite
unconscious of the ludicrous contrast between his subject and his
head-gear, for he was going to read her the "Death of Wallenstein."

      [Illustration: He doesn't prink at his glass before coming]

She said nothing at first, for she liked to hear him laugh out his big,
hearty laugh, when anything funny happened, so she left him to discover
it for himself, and presently forgot all about it; for to hear a German
read Schiller is rather an absorbing occupation. After the reading came
the lesson, which was a lively one, for Jo was in a gay mood that night,
and the cocked-hat kept her eyes dancing with merriment. The Professor
didn't know what to make of her, and stopped at last, to ask, with an
air of mild surprise that was irresistible,--

"Mees Marsch, for what do you laugh in your master's face? Haf you no
respect for me, that you go on so bad?"

"How can I be respectful, sir, when you forget to take your hat off?"
said Jo.

Lifting his hand to his head, the absent-minded Professor gravely felt
and removed the little cocked-hat, looked at it a minute, and then threw
back his head, and laughed like a merry bass-viol.

"Ah! I see him now; it is that imp Tina who makes me a fool with my cap.
Well, it is nothing; but see you, if this lesson goes not well, you too
shall wear him."

But the lesson did not go at all for a few minutes, because Mr. Bhaer
caught sight of a picture on the hat, and, unfolding it, said, with an
air of great disgust,--

"I wish these papers did not come in the house; they are not for
children to see, nor young people to read. It is not well, and I haf no
patience with those who make this harm."

Jo glanced at the sheet, and saw a pleasing illustration composed of a
lunatic, a corpse, a villain, and a viper. She did not like it; but the
impulse that made her turn it over was not one of displeasure, but fear,
because, for a minute, she fancied the paper was the "Volcano." It was
not, however, and her panic subsided as she remembered that, even if it
had been, and one of her own tales in it, there would have been no name
to betray her. She had betrayed herself, however, by a look and a blush;
for, though an absent man, the Professor saw a good deal more than
people fancied. He knew that Jo wrote, and had met her down among the
newspaper offices more than once; but as she never spoke of it, he asked
no questions, in spite of a strong desire to see her work. Now it
occurred to him that she was doing what she was ashamed to own, and it
troubled him. He did not say to himself, "It is none of my business;
I've no right to say anything," as many people would have done; he only
remembered that she was young and poor, a girl far away from mother's
love and father's care; and he was moved to help her with an impulse as
quick and natural as that which would prompt him to put out his hand to
save a baby from a puddle. All this flashed through his mind in a
minute, but not a trace of it appeared in his face; and by the time the
paper was turned, and Jo's needle threaded, he was ready to say quite
naturally, but very gravely,--

"Yes, you are right to put it from you. I do not like to think that good
young girls should see such things. They are made pleasant to some, but
I would more rather give my boys gunpowder to play with than this bad
trash."

"All may not be bad, only silly, you know; and if there is a demand for
it, I don't see any harm in supplying it. Many very respectable people
make an honest living out of what are called sensation stories," said
Jo, scratching gathers so energetically that a row of little slits
followed her pin.

"There is a demand for whiskey, but I think you and I do not care to
sell it. If the respectable people knew what harm they did, they would
not feel that the living _was_ honest. They haf no right to put poison
in the sugar-plum, and let the small ones eat it. No; they should think
a little, and sweep mud in the street before they do this thing."

Mr. Bhaer spoke warmly, and walked to the fire, crumpling the paper in
his hands. Jo sat still, looking as if the fire had come to her; for her
cheeks burned long after the cocked hat had turned to smoke, and gone
harmlessly up the chimney.

"I should like much to send all the rest after him," muttered the
Professor, coming back with a relieved air.

Jo thought what a blaze her pile of papers upstairs would make, and her
hard-earned money lay rather heavily on her conscience at that minute.
Then she thought consolingly to herself, "Mine are not like that; they
are only silly, never bad, so I won't be worried;" and taking up her
book, she said, with a studious face,--

"Shall we go on, sir? I'll be very good and proper now."

"I shall hope so," was all he said, but he meant more than she imagined;
and the grave, kind look he gave her made her feel as if the words
"Weekly Volcano" were printed in large type on her forehead.

As soon as she went to her room, she got out her papers, and carefully
re-read every one of her stories. Being a little short-sighted, Mr.
Bhaer sometimes used eye-glasses, and Jo had tried them once, smiling to
see how they magnified the fine print of her book; now she seemed to
have got on the Professor's mental or moral spectacles also; for the
faults of these poor stories glared at her dreadfully, and filled her
with dismay.

"They _are_ trash, and will soon be worse than trash if I go on; for
each is more sensational than the last. I've gone blindly on, hurting
myself and other people, for the sake of money; I know it's so, for I
can't read this stuff in sober earnest without being horribly ashamed of
it; and what _should_ I do if they were seen at home, or Mr. Bhaer got
hold of them?"

Jo turned hot at the bare idea, and stuffed the whole bundle into her
stove, nearly setting the chimney afire with the blaze.

         [Illustration: Jo stuffed the whole bundle into the stove]

"Yes, that's the best place for such inflammable nonsense; I'd better
burn the house down, I suppose, than let other people blow themselves up
with my gunpowder," she thought, as she watched the "Demon of the Jura"
whisk away, a little black cinder with fiery eyes.

But when nothing remained of all her three months' work except a heap of
ashes, and the money in her lap, Jo looked sober, as she sat on the
floor, wondering what she ought to do about her wages.

"I think I haven't done much harm _yet_, and may keep this to pay for my
time," she said, after a long meditation, adding impatiently, "I almost
wish I hadn't any conscience, it's so inconvenient. If I didn't care
about doing right, and didn't feel uncomfortable when doing wrong, I
should get on capitally. I can't help wishing sometimes, that father and
mother hadn't been so particular about such things."

Ah, Jo, instead of wishing that, thank God that "father and mother
_were_ particular," and pity from your heart those who have no such
guardians to hedge them round with principles which may seem like
prison-walls to impatient youth, but which will prove sure foundations
to build character upon in womanhood.

Jo wrote no more sensational stories, deciding that the money did not
pay for her share of the sensation; but, going to the other extreme, as
is the way with people of her stamp, she took a course of Mrs. Sherwood,
Miss Edgeworth, and Hannah More; and then produced a tale which might
have been more properly called an essay or a sermon, so intensely moral
was it. She had her doubts about it from the beginning; for her lively
fancy and girlish romance felt as ill at ease in the new style as she
would have done masquerading in the stiff and cumbrous costume of the
last century. She sent this didactic gem to several markets, but it
found no purchaser; and she was inclined to agree with Mr. Dashwood,
that morals didn't sell.

Then she tried a child's story, which she could easily have disposed of
if she had not been mercenary enough to demand filthy lucre for it. The
only person who offered enough to make it worth her while to try
juvenile literature was a worthy gentleman who felt it his mission to
convert all the world to his particular belief. But much as she liked to
write for children, Jo could not consent to depict all her naughty boys
as being eaten by bears or tossed by mad bulls, because they did not go
to a particular Sabbath-school, nor all the good infants, who did go, as
rewarded by every kind of bliss, from gilded gingerbread to escorts of
angels, when they departed this life with psalms or sermons on their
lisping tongues. So nothing came of these trials; and Jo corked up her
inkstand, and said, in a fit of very wholesome humility,--

"I don't know anything; I'll wait till I do before I try again, and,
meantime, 'sweep mud in the street,' if I can't do better; that's
honest, at least;" which decision proved that her second tumble down the
bean-stalk had done her some good.

While these internal revolutions were going on, her external life had
been as busy and uneventful as usual; and if she sometimes looked
serious or a little sad no one observed it but Professor Bhaer. He did
it so quietly that Jo never knew he was watching to see if she would
accept and profit by his reproof; but she stood the test, and he was
satisfied; for, though no words passed between them, he knew that she
had given up writing. Not only did he guess it by the fact that the
second finger of her right hand was no longer inky, but she spent her
evenings downstairs now, was met no more among newspaper offices, and
studied with a dogged patience, which assured him that she was bent on
occupying her mind with something useful, if not pleasant.

He helped her in many ways, proving himself a true friend, and Jo was
happy; for, while her pen lay idle, she was learning other lessons
beside German, and laying a foundation for the sensation story of her
own life.

It was a pleasant winter and a long one, for she did not leave Mrs.
Kirke till June. Every one seemed sorry when the time came; the children
were inconsolable, and Mr. Bhaer's hair stuck straight up all over his
head, for he always rumpled it wildly when disturbed in mind.

"Going home? Ah, you are happy that you haf a home to go in," he said,
when she told him, and sat silently pulling his beard, in the corner,
while she held a little levee on that last evening.

She was going early, so she bade them all good-by over night; and when
his turn came, she said warmly,--

"Now, sir, you won't forget to come and see us, if you ever travel our
way, will you? I'll never forgive you if you do, for I want them all to
know my friend."

"Do you? Shall I come?" he asked, looking down at her with an eager
expression which she did not see.

"Yes, come next month; Laurie graduates then, and you'd enjoy
Commencement as something new."

"That is your best friend, of whom you speak?" he said, in an altered
tone.

"Yes, my boy Teddy; I'm very proud of him, and should like you to see
him."

Jo looked up then, quite unconscious of anything but her own pleasure in
the prospect of showing them to one another. Something in Mr. Bhaer's
face suddenly recalled the fact that she might find Laurie more than a
"best friend," and, simply because she particularly wished not to look
as if anything was the matter, she involuntarily began to blush; and the
more she tried not to, the redder she grew. If it had not been for Tina
on her knee, she didn't know what would have become of her. Fortunately,
the child was moved to hug her; so she managed to hide her face an
instant, hoping the Professor did not see it. But he did, and his own
changed again from that momentary anxiety to its usual expression, as he
said cordially,--

"I fear I shall not make the time for that, but I wish the friend much
success, and you all happiness. Gott bless you!" and with that, he shook
hands warmly, shouldered Tina, and went away.

But after the boys were abed, he sat long before his fire, with the
tired look on his face, and the "_heimweh_," or homesickness, lying
heavy at his heart. Once, when he remembered Jo, as she sat with the
little child in her lap and that new softness in her face, he leaned his
head on his hands a minute, and then roamed about the room, as if in
search of something that he could not find.

"It is not for me; I must not hope it now," he said to himself, with a
sigh that was almost a groan; then, as if reproaching himself for the
longing that he could not repress, he went and kissed the two towzled
heads upon the pillow, took down his seldom-used meerschaum, and opened
his Plato.

He did his best, and did it manfully; but I don't think he found that a
pair of rampant boys, a pipe, or even the divine Plato, were very
satisfactory substitutes for wife and child and home.

Early as it was, he was at the station, next morning, to see Jo off;
and, thanks to him, she began her solitary journey with the pleasant
memory of a familiar face smiling its farewell, a bunch of violets to
keep her company, and, best of all, the happy thought,--

"Well, the winter's gone, and I've written no books, earned no fortune;
but I've made a friend worth having, and I'll try to keep him all my
life."

          [Illustration: He put the sisters into the carriage]

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

completion: A Friend For many years, Jo has wished to be wealthy, so that she could give make Beth comfortable, go abroad, and always have more than enough so she could share it with others. So, following her success with her prize money writing sensation stories, she continues to do so in New York for a paper called the Weekly Volcano. The editor accepts her first story only when all moral elements have been cut out, which alarms Jo, but for $25 a story she obliges. To keep her plots fresh and her stories thrilling, Jo finds herself including increasingly lurid material, which she seeks out in newspaper articles and ancient tales. She publishes anonymously and does not share the news at home, feeling they would not approve. Jo therefore stays focused on the ends, rather than the means, of her earnings. In her new study of characters, real and imaginary, Jo finds that Mr. Bhaer is a real live hero. Wondering why he is so well loved, not being rich, handsome, or young, she decides it is his benevolence, his simple joyful attitude and goodwill towards his fellow men and women. She learned that in Germany he had been an honored Professor, though here he was a humble tutor, and never mentions his true intellect and position. When Jo attends a literary symposium with the kind Miss Norton, she is quite disillusioned by seeing authors, scientists, and musicians whose work she admires are still in society and flirt and eat and gossip just as much as anyone. Jo finds herself fascinated by a conversation about philosophy that seems to undermine religion and place intellectualism in its place. Mr. Bhaer, concerned about her and other young people being drawn into this tempting but empty system of thought, speaks out in defense of religion and morality. Jo, feeling the world is righted again, deepens her respect and admiration for him. During one of their German lessons, Mr. Bhaer sees a newspaper story like the one that Jo secretly writes. He shares his disgust that such rubbish comes into the house, and his disapproval of those who write it. Jo blushes, and says the stories may only be silly, and their authors good. Mr. Bhaer realizes she may be writing such material and, remembering that she is far from the moral compass of home, says not all demands should be met, and the living made from meeting such immoral demands is not honest. After they part, Jo rereads her stories and decides she agrees with Mr. Bhaer, and burns them up. She tries writing moral stories and children's stories, but does not find a demand, and stops writing for the rest of her time in New York. Instead, she deepens her friendship with Mr. Bhaer and all are very sad when she is to leave in June. At their parting, Jo invites him to visit, but then mistakenly blushes when she speaks of Laurie, and Mr. Bhaer gets the impression that she loves Laurie. That evening, alone in his room, he laments that to be with Jo is not for him


prompt:
Chapter: XXXV. HEARTACHE.

Whatever his motive might have been, Laurie studied to some purpose that
year, for he graduated with honor, and gave the Latin oration with the
grace of a Phillips and the eloquence of a Demosthenes, so his friends
said. They were all there, his grandfather,--oh, so proud!--Mr. and Mrs.
March, John and Meg, Jo and Beth, and all exulted over him with the
sincere admiration which boys make light of at the time, but fail to win
from the world by any after-triumphs.

"I've got to stay for this confounded supper, but I shall be home early
to-morrow; you'll come and meet me as usual, girls?" Laurie said, as he
put the sisters into the carriage after the joys of the day were over.
He said "girls," but he meant Jo, for she was the only one who kept up
the old custom; she had not the heart to refuse her splendid, successful
boy anything, and answered warmly,--

"I'll come, Teddy, rain or shine, and march before you, playing '_Hail
the conquering hero comes_,' on a jews-harp."

Laurie thanked her with a look that made her think, in a sudden panic,
"Oh, deary me! I know he'll say something, and then what shall I do?"

Evening meditation and morning work somewhat allayed her fears, and
having decided that she wouldn't be vain enough to think people were
going to propose when she had given them every reason to know what her
answer would be, she set forth at the appointed time, hoping Teddy
wouldn't do anything to make her hurt his poor little feelings. A call
at Meg's, and a refreshing sniff and sip at the Daisy and Demijohn,
still further fortified her for the _tête-à-tête_, but when she saw a
stalwart figure looming in the distance, she had a strong desire to turn
about and run away.

"Where's the jews-harp, Jo?" cried Laurie, as soon as he was within
speaking distance.

"I forgot it;" and Jo took heart again, for that salutation could not be
called lover-like.

She always used to take his arm on these occasions; now she did not, and
he made no complaint, which was a bad sign, but talked on rapidly about
all sorts of far-away subjects, till they turned from the road into the
little path that led homeward through the grove. Then he walked more
slowly, suddenly lost his fine flow of language, and, now and then, a
dreadful pause occurred. To rescue the conversation from one of the
wells of silence into which it kept falling, Jo said hastily,--

"Now you must have a good long holiday!"

"I intend to."

Something in his resolute tone made Jo look up quickly to find him
looking down at her with an expression that assured her the dreaded
moment had come, and made her put out her hand with an imploring,--

"No, Teddy, please don't!"

"I will, and you _must_ hear me. It's no use, Jo; we've got to have it
out, and the sooner the better for both of us," he answered, getting
flushed and excited all at once.

"Say what you like, then; I'll listen," said Jo, with a desperate sort
of patience.

Laurie was a young lover, but he was in earnest, and meant to "have it
out," if he died in the attempt; so he plunged into the subject with
characteristic impetuosity, saying in a voice that _would_ get choky now
and then, in spite of manful efforts to keep it steady,--

"I've loved you ever since I've known you, Jo; couldn't help it, you've
been so good to me. I've tried to show it, but you wouldn't let me; now
I'm going to make you hear, and give me an answer, for I _can't_ go on
so any longer."

"I wanted to save you this; I thought you'd understand--" began Jo,
finding it a great deal harder than she expected.

"I know you did; but girls are so queer you never know what they mean.
They say No when they mean Yes, and drive a man out of his wits just for
the fun of it," returned Laurie, entrenching himself behind an
undeniable fact.

"_I_ don't. I never wanted to make you care for me so, and I went away
to keep you from it if I could."

"I thought so; it was like you, but it was no use. I only loved you all
the more, and I worked hard to please you, and I gave up billiards and
everything you didn't like, and waited and never complained, for I hoped
you'd love me, though I'm not half good enough--" here there was a choke
that couldn't be controlled, so he decapitated buttercups while he
cleared his "confounded throat."

"Yes, you are; you're a great deal too good for me, and I'm so grateful
to you, and so proud and fond of you, I don't see why I can't love you
as you want me to. I've tried, but I can't change the feeling, and it
would be a lie to say I do when I don't."

"Really, truly, Jo?"

He stopped short, and caught both her hands as he put his question with
a look that she did not soon forget.

"Really, truly, dear."

They were in the grove now, close by the stile; and when the last words
fell reluctantly from Jo's lips, Laurie dropped her hands and turned as
if to go on, but for once in his life that fence was too much for him;
so he just laid his head down on the mossy post, and stood so still that
Jo was frightened.

        [Illustration: He laid his head down on the mossy post]

"O Teddy, I'm so sorry, so desperately sorry, I could kill myself if it
would do any good! I wish you wouldn't take it so hard. I can't help it;
you know it's impossible for people to make themselves love other people
if they don't," cried Jo inelegantly but remorsefully, as she softly
patted his shoulder, remembering the time when he had comforted her so
long ago.

"They do sometimes," said a muffled voice from the post.

"I don't believe it's the right sort of love, and I'd rather not try
it," was the decided answer.

There was a long pause, while a blackbird sung blithely on the willow by
the river, and the tall grass rustled in the wind. Presently Jo said
very soberly, as she sat down on the step of the stile,--

"Laurie, I want to tell you something."

He started as if he had been shot, threw up his head, and cried out, in
a fierce tone--

"_Don't_ tell me that, Jo; I can't bear it now!"

"Tell what?" she asked, wondering at his violence.

"That you love that old man."

"What old man?" demanded Jo, thinking he must mean his grandfather.

"That devilish Professor you were always writing about. If you say you
love him, I know I shall do something desperate;" and he looked as if he
would keep his word, as he clenched his hands, with a wrathful spark in
his eyes.

Jo wanted to laugh, but restrained herself, and said warmly, for she,
too, was getting excited with all this,--

"Don't swear, Teddy! He isn't old, nor anything bad, but good and kind,
and the best friend I've got, next to you. Pray, don't fly into a
passion; I want to be kind, but I know I shall get angry if you abuse my
Professor. I haven't the least idea of loving him or anybody else."

"But you will after a while, and then what will become of me?"

"You'll love some one else too, like a sensible boy, and forget all this
trouble."

"I _can't_ love any one else; and I'll never forget you, Jo, never!
never!" with a stamp to emphasize his passionate words.

"What _shall_ I do with him?" sighed Jo, finding that emotions were more
unmanageable than she expected. "You haven't heard what I wanted to tell
you. Sit down and listen; for indeed I want to do right and make you
happy," she said, hoping to soothe him with a little reason, which
proved that she knew nothing about love.

Seeing a ray of hope in that last speech, Laurie threw himself down on
the grass at her feet, leaned his arm on the lower step of the stile,
and looked up at her with an expectant face. Now that arrangement was
not conducive to calm speech or clear thought on Jo's part; for how
_could_ she say hard things to her boy while he watched her with eyes
full of love and longing, and lashes still wet with the bitter drop or
two her hardness of heart had wrung from him? She gently turned his head
away, saying, as she stroked the wavy hair which had been allowed to
grow for her sake,--how touching that was, to be sure!--

"I agree with mother that you and I are not suited to each other,
because our quick tempers and strong wills would probably make us very
miserable, if we were so foolish as to--" Jo paused a little over the
last word, but Laurie uttered it with a rapturous expression,--

"Marry,--no, we shouldn't! If you loved me, Jo, I should be a perfect
saint, for you could make me anything you like."

"No, I can't. I've tried it and failed, and I won't risk our happiness
by such a serious experiment. We don't agree and we never shall; so
we'll be good friends all our lives, but we won't go and do anything
rash."

"Yes, we will if we get the chance," muttered Laurie rebelliously.

"Now do be reasonable, and take a sensible view of the case," implored
Jo, almost at her wit's end.

"I won't be reasonable; I don't want to take what you call 'a sensible
view;' it won't help me, and it only makes you harder. I don't believe
you've got any heart."

"I wish I hadn't!"

There was a little quiver in Jo's voice, and, thinking it a good omen,
Laurie turned round, bringing all his persuasive powers to bear as he
said, in the wheedlesome tone that had never been so dangerously
wheedlesome before,--

"Don't disappoint us, dear! Every one expects it. Grandpa has set his
heart upon it, your people like it, and I can't get on without you. Say
you will, and let's be happy. Do, do!"

Not until months afterward did Jo understand how she had the strength of
mind to hold fast to the resolution she had made when she decided that
she did not love her boy, and never could. It was very hard to do, but
she did it, knowing that delay was both useless and cruel.

"I can't say 'Yes' truly, so I won't say it at all. You'll see that I'm
right, by and by, and thank me for it"--she began solemnly.

"I'll be hanged if I do!" and Laurie bounced up off the grass, burning
with indignation at the bare idea.

"Yes, you will!" persisted Jo; "you'll get over this after a while, and
find some lovely, accomplished girl, who will adore you, and make a fine
mistress for your fine house. I shouldn't. I'm homely and awkward and
odd and old, and you'd be ashamed of me, and we should quarrel,--we
can't help it even now, you see,--and I shouldn't like elegant society
and you would, and you'd hate my scribbling, and I couldn't get on
without it, and we should be unhappy, and wish we hadn't done it, and
everything would be horrid!"

"Anything more?" asked Laurie, finding it hard to listen patiently to
this prophetic burst.

"Nothing more, except that I don't believe I shall ever marry. I'm happy
as I am, and love my liberty too well to be in any hurry to give it up
for any mortal man."

"I know better!" broke in Laurie. "You think so now; but there'll come a
time when you _will_ care for somebody, and you'll love him
tremendously, and live and die for him. I know you will, it's your way,
and I shall have to stand by and see it;" and the despairing lover cast
his hat upon the ground with a gesture that would have seemed comical,
if his face had not been so tragical.

"Yes, I _will_ live and die for him, if he ever comes and makes me love
him in spite of myself, and you must do the best you can!" cried Jo,
losing patience with poor Teddy. "I've done my best, but you _won't_ be
reasonable, and it's selfish of you to keep teasing for what I can't
give. I shall always be fond of you, very fond indeed, as a friend, but
I'll never marry you; and the sooner you believe it, the better for both
of us,--so now!"

That speech was like fire to gunpowder. Laurie looked at her a minute as
if he did not quite know what to do with himself, then turned sharply
away, saying, in a desperate sort of tone,--

"You'll be sorry some day, Jo."

"Oh, where are you going?" she cried, for his face frightened her.

"To the devil!" was the consoling answer.

For a minute Jo's heart stood still, as he swung himself down the bank,
toward the river; but it takes much folly, sin, or misery to send a
young man to a violent death, and Laurie was not one of the weak sort
who are conquered by a single failure. He had no thought of a
melodramatic plunge, but some blind instinct led him to fling hat and
coat into his boat, and row away with all his might, making better time
up the river than he had done in many a race. Jo drew a long breath and
unclasped her hands as she watched the poor fellow trying to outstrip
the trouble which he carried in his heart.

"That will do him good, and he'll come home in such a tender, penitent
state of mind, that I sha'n't dare to see him," she said; adding, as she
went slowly home, feeling as if she had murdered some innocent thing,
and buried it under the leaves,--

"Now I must go and prepare Mr. Laurence to be very kind to my poor boy.
I wish he'd love Beth; perhaps he may, in time, but I begin to think I
was mistaken about her. Oh dear! how can girls like to have lovers and
refuse them. I think it's dreadful."

Being sure that no one could do it so well as herself, she went straight
to Mr. Laurence, told the hard story bravely through, and then broke
down, crying so dismally over her own insensibility that the kind old
gentleman, though sorely disappointed, did not utter a reproach. He
found it difficult to understand how any girl could help loving Laurie,
and hoped she would change her mind, but he knew even better than Jo
that love cannot be forced, so he shook his head sadly, and resolved to
carry his boy out of harm's way; for Young Impetuosity's parting words
to Jo disturbed him more than he would confess.

When Laurie came home, dead tired, but quite composed, his grandfather
met him as if he knew nothing, and kept up the delusion very
successfully for an hour or two. But when they sat together in the
twilight, the time they used to enjoy so much, it was hard work for the
old man to ramble on as usual, and harder still for the young one to
listen to praises of the last year's success, which to him now seemed
love's labor lost. He bore it as long as he could, then went to his
piano, and began to play. The windows were open; and Jo, walking in the
garden with Beth, for once understood music better than her sister, for
he played the "Sonata Pathétique," and played it as he never did before.

"That's very fine, I dare say, but it's sad enough to make one cry; give
us something gayer, lad," said Mr. Laurence, whose kind old heart was
full of sympathy, which he longed to show, but knew not how.

Laurie dashed into a livelier strain, played stormily for several
minutes, and would have got through bravely, if, in a momentary lull,
Mrs. March's voice had not been heard calling,--

"Jo, dear, come in; I want you."

Just what Laurie longed to say, with a different meaning! As he
listened, he lost his place; the music ended with a broken chord, and
the musician sat silent in the dark.

"I can't stand this," muttered the old gentleman. Up he got, groped his
way to the piano, laid a kind hand on either of the broad shoulders, and
said, as gently as a woman,--

"I know, my boy, I know."

No answer for an instant; then Laurie asked sharply,--

"Who told you?"

"Jo herself."

"Then there's an end of it!" and he shook off his grandfather's hands
with an impatient motion; for, though grateful for the sympathy, his
man's pride could not bear a man's pity.

"Not quite; I want to say one thing, and then there shall be an end of
it," returned Mr. Laurence, with unusual mildness. "You won't care to
stay at home just now, perhaps?"

"I don't intend to run away from a girl. Jo can't prevent my seeing her,
and I shall stay and do it as long as I like," interrupted Laurie, in a
defiant tone.

"Not if you are the gentleman I think you. I'm disappointed, but the
girl can't help it; and the only thing left for you to do is to go away
for a time. Where will you go?"

"Anywhere. I don't care what becomes of me;" and Laurie got up, with a
reckless laugh, that grated on his grandfather's ear.

"Take it like a man, and don't do anything rash, for God's sake. Why not
go abroad, as you planned, and forget it?"

"I can't."

"But you've been wild to go, and I promised you should when you got
through college."

"Ah, but I didn't mean to go alone!" and Laurie walked fast through the
room, with an expression which it was well his grandfather did not see.

"I don't ask you to go alone; there's some one ready and glad to go with
you, anywhere in the world."

"Who, sir?" stopping to listen.

"Myself."

Laurie came back as quickly as he went, and put out his hand, saying
huskily,--

"I'm a selfish brute; but--you know--grandfather--"

"Lord help me, yes, I do know, for I've been through it all before, once
in my own young days, and then with your father. Now, my dear boy, just
sit quietly down, and hear my plan. It's all settled, and can be carried
out at once," said Mr. Laurence, keeping hold of the young man, as if
fearful that he would break away, as his father had done before him.

"Well, sir, what is it?" and Laurie sat down, without a sign of interest
in face or voice.

"There is business in London that needs looking after; I meant you
should attend to it; but I can do it better myself, and things here will
get on very well with Brooke to manage them. My partners do almost
everything; I'm merely holding on till you take my place, and can be off
at any time."

"But you hate travelling, sir; I can't ask it of you at your age," began
Laurie, who was grateful for the sacrifice, but much preferred to go
alone, if he went at all.

The old gentleman knew that perfectly well, and particularly desired to
prevent it; for the mood in which he found his grandson assured him that
it would not be wise to leave him to his own devices. So, stifling a
natural regret at the thought of the home comforts he would leave behind
him, he said stoutly,--

"Bless your soul, I'm not superannuated yet. I quite enjoy the idea; it
will do me good, and my old bones won't suffer, for travelling nowadays
is almost as easy as sitting in a chair."

A restless movement from Laurie suggested that _his_ chair was not easy,
or that he did not like the plan, and made the old man add hastily,--

"I don't mean to be a marplot or a burden; I go because I think you'd
feel happier than if I was left behind. I don't intend to gad about with
you, but leave you free to go where you like, while I amuse myself in my
own way. I've friends in London and Paris, and should like to visit
them; meantime you can go to Italy, Germany, Switzerland, where you
will, and enjoy pictures, music, scenery, and adventures to your heart's
content."

Now, Laurie felt just then that his heart was entirely broken, and the
world a howling wilderness; but at the sound of certain words which the
old gentleman artfully introduced into his closing sentence, the broken
heart gave an unexpected leap, and a green oasis or two suddenly
appeared in the howling wilderness. He sighed, and then said, in a
spiritless tone,--

"Just as you like, sir; it doesn't matter where I go or what I do."

"It does to me, remember that, my lad; I give you entire liberty, but I
trust you to make an honest use of it. Promise me that, Laurie."

"Anything you like, sir."

"Good," thought the old gentleman. "You don't care now, but there'll
come a time when that promise will keep you out of mischief, or I'm much
mistaken."

Being an energetic individual, Mr. Laurence struck while the iron was
hot; and before the blighted being recovered spirit enough to rebel,
they were off. During the time necessary for preparation, Laurie bore
himself as young gentlemen usually do in such cases. He was moody,
irritable, and pensive by turns; lost his appetite, neglected his dress,
and devoted much time to playing tempestuously on his piano; avoided Jo,
but consoled himself by staring at her from his window, with a tragical
face that haunted her dreams by night, and oppressed her with a heavy
sense of guilt by day. Unlike some sufferers, he never spoke of his
unrequited passion, and would allow no one, not even Mrs. March, to
attempt consolation or offer sympathy. On some accounts, this was a
relief to his friends; but the weeks before his departure were very
uncomfortable, and every one rejoiced that the "poor, dear fellow was
going away to forget his trouble, and come home happy." Of course, he
smiled darkly at their delusion, but passed it by, with the sad
superiority of one who knew that his fidelity, like his love, was
unalterable.

When the parting came he affected high spirits, to conceal certain
inconvenient emotions which seemed inclined to assert themselves. This
gayety did not impose upon anybody, but they tried to look as if it did,
for his sake, and he got on very well till Mrs. March kissed him, with
a whisper full of motherly solicitude; then, feeling that he was going
very fast, he hastily embraced them all round, not forgetting the
afflicted Hannah, and ran downstairs as if for his life. Jo followed a
minute after to wave her hand to him if he looked round. He did look
round, came back, put his arms about her, as she stood on the step above
him, and looked up at her with a face that made his short appeal both
eloquent and pathetic.

"O Jo, can't you?"

                    [Illustration: O Jo, can't you?]

"Teddy, dear, I wish I could!"

That was all, except a little pause; then Laurie straightened himself
up, said "It's all right, never mind," and went away without another
word. Ah, but it wasn't all right, and Jo _did_ mind; for while the
curly head lay on her arm a minute after her hard answer, she felt as if
she had stabbed her dearest friend; and when he left her without a look
behind him, she knew that the boy Laurie never would come again.

                       [Illustration: Tail-piece]

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

completion: Heartache Laurie, who worked ardently while Jo was away, grew his hair as she likes, and gave up billiards, graduates from college with honors and makes everyone proud. The day he returns from college, Jo meets him, fearing he may propose. Jo is right, as Laurie admits that he has loved her since the moment he met her, and tells how hard he has worked to earn her favor. Jo apologizes, saying she has tried to love him but does not, and cannot lie. Laurie accuses her of loving Mr. Bhaer, which almost makes Jo laugh, since it is so far from her mind. She tries to reason with him, but Laurie is deeply hurt, and tries to convince Jo that everyone expects it, and that they should not disappoint. However, Jo agrees with Marmee that they are too quick-tempered and strong-willed, and cannot marry. Jo says he should marry someone more fashionable and accomplished, and angry Laurie storms off saying he is going "to the devil. This alarms Jo, who goes straight to Mr. Laurence and tells him what happened. Mr. Laurence, disappointed but kind, shares Jo's fears about Laurie's impetuousness and devises a plan for him to travel with Laurie abroad. Mr. Laurence will take care of business in London and visit friends in Paris, while Laurie can travel as he likes. When introducing the plan to Laurie that evening, Mr. Laurence artfully mentions music and adventures, and Laurie agrees to go. In but a few weeks they are gone. Jo feels that she has stabbed her best friend in the heart, and her boy Laurie will return a changed man


prompt:
Chapter: XXXVI. BETH'S SECRET.

When Jo came home that spring, she had been struck with the change in
Beth. No one spoke of it or seemed aware of it, for it had come too
gradually to startle those who saw her daily; but to eyes sharpened by
absence, it was very plain; and a heavy weight fell on Jo's heart as she
saw her sister's face. It was no paler and but little thinner than in
the autumn; yet there was a strange, transparent look about it, as if
the mortal was being slowly refined away, and the immortal shining
through the frail flesh with an indescribably pathetic beauty. Jo saw
and felt it, but said nothing at the time, and soon the first impression
lost much of its power; for Beth seemed happy, no one appeared to doubt
that she was better; and, presently, in other cares, Jo for a time
forgot her fear.

But when Laurie was gone, and peace prevailed again, the vague anxiety
returned and haunted her. She had confessed her sins and been forgiven;
but when she showed her savings and proposed the mountain trip, Beth had
thanked her heartily, but begged not to go so far away from home.
Another little visit to the seashore would suit her better, and, as
grandma could not be prevailed upon to leave the babies, Jo took Beth
down to the quiet place, where she could live much in the open air, and
let the fresh sea-breezes blow a little color into her pale cheeks.

It was not a fashionable place, but, even among the pleasant people
there, the girls made few friends, preferring to live for one another.
Beth was too shy to enjoy society, and Jo too wrapped up in her to care
for any one else; so they were all in all to each other, and came and
went, quite unconscious of the interest they excited in those about
them, who watched with sympathetic eyes the strong sister and the feeble
one, always together, as if they felt instinctively that a long
separation was not far away.

They did feel it, yet neither spoke of it; for often between ourselves
and those nearest and dearest to us there exists a reserve which it is
very hard to overcome. Jo felt as if a veil had fallen between her heart
and Beth's; but when she put out her hand to lift it up, there seemed
something sacred in the silence, and she waited for Beth to speak. She
wondered, and was thankful also, that her parents did not seem to see
what she saw; and, during the quiet weeks, when the shadow grew so plain
to her, she said nothing of it to those at home, believing that it would
tell itself when Beth came back no better. She wondered still more if
her sister really guessed the hard truth, and what thoughts were passing
through her mind during the long hours when she lay on the warm rocks,
with her head in Jo's lap, while the winds blew healthfully over her,
and the sea made music at her feet.

     [Illustration: With her head in Jo's lap, while the wind blew
                        healthfully over her]

One day Beth told her. Jo thought she was asleep, she lay so still; and,
putting down her book, sat looking at her with wistful eyes, trying to
see signs of hope in the faint color on Beth's cheeks. But she could not
find enough to satisfy her, for the cheeks were very thin, and the hands
seemed too feeble to hold even the rosy little shells they had been
gathering. It came to her then more bitterly than ever that Beth was
slowly drifting away from her, and her arms instinctively tightened
their hold upon the dearest treasure she possessed. For a minute her
eyes were too dim for seeing, and, when they cleared, Beth was looking
up at her so tenderly that there was hardly any need for her to say,--

"Jo, dear, I'm glad you know it. I've tried to tell you, but I
couldn't."

There was no answer except her sister's cheek against her own, not even
tears; for when most deeply moved, Jo did not cry. She was the weaker,
then, and Beth tried to comfort and sustain her, with her arms about
her, and the soothing words she whispered in her ear.

"I've known it for a good while, dear, and, now I'm used to it, it isn't
hard to think of or to bear. Try to see it so, and don't be troubled
about me, because it's best; indeed it is."

"Is this what made you so unhappy in the autumn, Beth? You did not feel
it then, and keep it to yourself so long, did you?" asked Jo, refusing
to see or say that it _was_ best, but glad to know that Laurie had no
part in Beth's trouble.

"Yes, I gave up hoping then, but I didn't like to own it. I tried to
think it was a sick fancy, and would not let it trouble any one. But
when I saw you all so well and strong, and full of happy plans, it was
hard to feel that I could never be like you, and then I was miserable,
Jo."

"O Beth, and you didn't tell me, didn't let me comfort and help you! How
could you shut me out, and bear it all alone?"

Jo's voice was full of tender reproach, and her heart ached to think of
the solitary struggle that must have gone on while Beth learned to say
good-by to health, love, and life, and take up her cross so cheerfully.

"Perhaps it was wrong, but I tried to do right; I wasn't sure, no one
said anything, and I hoped I was mistaken. It would have been selfish to
frighten you all when Marmee was so anxious about Meg, and Amy away, and
you so happy with Laurie,--at least, I thought so then."

"And I thought that you loved him, Beth, and I went away because I
couldn't," cried Jo, glad to say all the truth.

Beth looked so amazed at the idea that Jo smiled in spite of her pain,
and added softly,--

"Then you didn't, deary? I was afraid it was so, and imagined your poor
little heart full of love-lornity all that while."

"Why, Jo, how could I, when he was so fond of you?" asked Beth, as
innocently as a child. "I do love him dearly; he is so good to me, how
can I help it? But he never could be anything to me but my brother. I
hope he truly will be, sometime."

"Not through me," said Jo decidedly. "Amy is left for him, and they
would suit excellently; but I have no heart for such things, now. I
don't care what becomes of anybody but you, Beth. You _must_ get well."

"I want to, oh, so much! I try, but every day I lose a little, and feel
more sure that I shall never gain it back. It's like the tide, Jo, when
it turns, it goes slowly, but it can't be stopped."

"It _shall_ be stopped, your tide must not turn so soon, nineteen is too
young. Beth, I can't let you go. I'll work and pray and fight against
it. I'll keep you in spite of everything; there must be ways, it can't
be too late. God won't be so cruel as to take you from me," cried poor
Jo rebelliously, for her spirit was far less piously submissive than
Beth's.

Simple, sincere people seldom speak much of their piety; it shows itself
in acts, rather than in words, and has more influence than homilies or
protestations. Beth could not reason upon or explain the faith that gave
her courage and patience to give up life, and cheerfully wait for death.
Like a confiding child, she asked no questions, but left everything to
God and nature, Father and mother of us all, feeling sure that they, and
they only, could teach and strengthen heart and spirit for this life and
the life to come. She did not rebuke Jo with saintly speeches, only
loved her better for her passionate affection, and clung more closely to
the dear human love, from which our Father never means us to be weaned,
but through which He draws us closer to Himself. She could not say, "I'm
glad to go," for life was very sweet to her; she could only sob out, "I
try to be willing," while she held fast to Jo, as the first bitter wave
of this great sorrow broke over them together.

By and by Beth said, with recovered serenity,--

"You'll tell them this when we go home?"

"I think they will see it without words," sighed Jo; for now it seemed
to her that Beth changed every day.

"Perhaps not; I've heard that the people who love best are often
blindest to such things. If they don't see it, you will tell them for
me. I don't want any secrets, and it's kinder to prepare them. Meg has
John and the babies to comfort her, but you must stand by father and
mother, won't you, Jo?"

"If I can; but, Beth, I don't give up yet; I'm going to believe that it
_is_ a sick fancy, and not let you think it's true," said Jo, trying to
speak cheerfully.

Beth lay a minute thinking, and then said in her quiet way,--

"I don't know how to express myself, and shouldn't try, to any one but
you, because I can't speak out, except to my Jo. I only mean to say
that I have a feeling that it never was intended I should live long. I'm
not like the rest of you; I never made any plans about what I'd do when
I grew up; I never thought of being married, as you all did. I couldn't
seem to imagine myself anything but stupid little Beth, trotting about
at home, of no use anywhere but there. I never wanted to go away, and
the hard part now is the leaving you all. I'm not afraid, but it seems
as if I should be homesick for you even in heaven."

Jo could not speak; and for several minutes there was no sound but the
sigh of the wind and the lapping of the tide. A white-winged gull flew
by, with the flash of sunshine on its silvery breast; Beth watched it
till it vanished, and her eyes were full of sadness. A little
gray-coated sand-bird came tripping over the beach, "peeping" softly to
itself, as if enjoying the sun and sea; it came quite close to Beth,
looked at her with a friendly eye, and sat upon a warm stone, dressing
its wet feathers, quite at home. Beth smiled, and felt comforted, for
the tiny thing seemed to offer its small friendship, and remind her that
a pleasant world was still to be enjoyed.

"Dear little bird! See, Jo, how tame it is. I like peeps better than the
gulls: they are not so wild and handsome, but they seem happy, confiding
little things. I used to call them my birds, last summer; and mother
said they reminded her of me,--busy, quaker-colored creatures, always
near the shore, and always chirping that contented little song of
theirs. You are the gull, Jo, strong and wild, fond of the storm and the
wind, flying far out to sea, and happy all alone. Meg is the
turtle-dove, and Amy is like the lark she writes about, trying to get up
among the clouds, but always dropping down into its nest again. Dear
little girl! she's so ambitious, but her heart is good and tender; and
no matter how high she flies, she never will forget home. I hope I shall
see her again, but she seems _so_ far away."

"She is coming in the spring, and I mean that you shall be all ready to
see and enjoy her. I'm going to have you well and rosy by that time,"
began Jo, feeling that of all the changes in Beth, the talking change
was the greatest, for it seemed to cost no effort now, and she thought
aloud in a way quite unlike bashful Beth.

"Jo, dear, don't hope any more; it won't do any good, I'm sure of that.
We won't be miserable, but enjoy being together while we wait. We'll
have happy times, for I don't suffer much, and I think the tide will go
out easily, if you help me."

Jo leaned down to kiss the tranquil face; and with that silent kiss, she
dedicated herself soul and body to Beth.

She was right: there was no need of any words when they got home, for
father and mother saw plainly, now, what they had prayed to be saved
from seeing. Tired with her short journey, Beth went at once to bed,
saying how glad she was to be at home; and when Jo went down, she found
that she would be spared the hard task of telling Beth's secret. Her
father stood leaning his head on the mantel-piece, and did not turn as
she came in; but her mother stretched out her arms as if for help, and
Jo went to comfort her without a word.

                       [Illustration: Tail-piece]

             [Illustration: He hurried forward to meet her]

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

completion: Beth's Secret When Jo returns from New York, she notices a change in Beth, as if the mortal is fading away and the immortal is starting to shine through. She proposes a trip to the mountains with her newspaper earnings, but Beth begs to stay closer to home, so she and Jo go to the seashore for a few weeks. It is here that Jo realizes that Beth's secret all along was not that she loves Laurie, but that Beth is dying. Beth says she does hope Laurie will be her brother someday, and Jo says Amy has left for him. Beth explains that she was sad in the fall because she had given up hope on living. She did not want to speak of it, not being sure, but she has since made her peace with it, and bravely, and piously now simply waits and tries to be willing. Jo still hopes something might change, but Beth says she has faith, and a feeling that she was not intended to live long, not having made the great plans and ambitions the others had. She does not share Jo's hope of getting well, but wishes to enjoy peacefully their remaining time together, and asks Jo to help Mother and Father bear it. Jo agrees, and dedicates herself heart and soul to her sister. When they return, Mother and Father see the change in Beth, and understand the truth without words


prompt:
Chapter: XXXVII. NEW IMPRESSIONS.

At three o'clock in the afternoon, all the fashionable world at Nice may
be seen on the Promenade des Anglais,--a charming place; for the wide
walk, bordered with palms, flowers, and tropical shrubs, is bounded on
one side by the sea, on the other by the grand drive, lined with hotels
and villas, while beyond lie orange-orchards and the hills. Many nations
are represented, many languages spoken, many costumes worn; and, on a
sunny day, the spectacle is as gay and brilliant as a carnival. Haughty
English, lively French, sober Germans, handsome Spaniards, ugly
Russians, meek Jews, free-and-easy Americans, all drive, sit, or saunter
here, chatting over the news, and criticising the latest celebrity who
has arrived,--Ristori or Dickens, Victor Emmanuel or the Queen of the
Sandwich Islands. The equipages are as varied as the company, and
attract as much attention, especially the low basket-barouches in which
ladies drive themselves, with a pair of dashing ponies, gay nets to keep
their voluminous flounces from overflowing the diminutive vehicles, and
little grooms on the perch behind.

Along this walk, on Christmas Day, a tall young man walked slowly, with
his hands behind him, and a somewhat absent expression of countenance.
He looked like an Italian, was dressed like an Englishman, and had the
independent air of an American,--a combination which caused sundry pairs
of feminine eyes to look approvingly after him, and sundry dandies in
black velvet suits, with rose-colored neckties, buff gloves, and
orange-flowers in their button-holes, to shrug their shoulders, and then
envy him his inches. There were plenty of pretty faces to admire, but
the young man took little notice of them, except to glance, now and
then, at some blonde girl, or lady in blue. Presently he strolled out of
the promenade, and stood a moment at the crossing, as if undecided
whether to go and listen to the band in the Jardin Publique, or to
wander along the beach toward Castle Hill. The quick trot of ponies'
feet made him look up, as one of the little carriages, containing a
single lady, came rapidly down the street. The lady was young, blonde,
and dressed in blue. He stared a minute, then his whole face woke up,
and, waving his hat like a boy, he hurried forward to meet her.

"O Laurie, is it really you? I thought you'd never come!" cried Amy,
dropping the reins, and holding out both hands, to the great
scandalization of a French mamma, who hastened her daughter's steps,
lest she should be demoralized by beholding the free manners of these
"mad English."

"I was detained by the way, but I promised to spend Christmas with you,
and here I am."

"How is your grandfather? When did you come? Where are you staying?"

"Very well--last night--at the Chauvain. I called at your hotel, but you
were all out."

"I have so much to say, I don't know where to begin! Get in, and we can
talk at our ease; I was going for a drive, and longing for company.
Flo's saving up for to-night."

"What happens then, a ball?"

"A Christmas party at our hotel. There are many Americans there, and
they give it in honor of the day. You'll go with us, of course? Aunt
will be charmed."

"Thank you. Where now?" asked Laurie, leaning back and folding his arms,
a proceeding which suited Amy, who preferred to drive; for her
parasol-whip and blue reins over the white ponies' backs, afforded her
infinite satisfaction.

"I'm going to the banker's first, for letters, and then to Castle Hill;
the view is so lovely, and I like to feed the peacocks. Have you ever
been there?"

"Often, years ago; but I don't mind having a look at it."

"Now tell me all about yourself. The last I heard of you, your
grandfather wrote that he expected you from Berlin."

"Yes, I spent a month there, and then joined him in Paris, where he has
settled for the winter. He has friends there, and finds plenty to amuse
him; so I go and come, and we get on capitally."

"That's a sociable arrangement," said Amy, missing something in Laurie's
manner, though she couldn't tell what.

"Why, you see he hates to travel, and I hate to keep still; so we each
suit ourselves, and there is no trouble. I am often with him, and he
enjoys my adventures, while I like to feel that some one is glad to see
me when I get back from my wanderings. Dirty old hole, isn't it?" he
added, with a look of disgust, as they drove along the boulevard to the
Place Napoleon, in the old city.

"The dirt is picturesque, so I don't mind. The river and the hills are
delicious, and these glimpses of the narrow cross-streets are my
delight. Now we shall have to wait for that procession to pass; it's
going to the Church of St. John."

While Laurie listlessly watched the procession of priests under their
canopies, white-veiled nuns bearing lighted tapers, and some brotherhood
in blue, chanting as they walked, Amy watched him, and felt a new sort
of shyness steal over her; for he was changed, and she could not find
the merry-faced boy she left in the moody-looking man beside her. He was
handsomer than ever, and greatly improved, she thought; but now that the
flush of pleasure at meeting her was over, he looked tired and
spiritless,--not sick, nor exactly unhappy, but older and graver than a
year or two of prosperous life should have made him. She couldn't
understand it, and did not venture to ask questions; so she shook her
head, and touched up her ponies, as the procession wound away across the
arches of the Paglioni bridge, and vanished in the church.

"_Que pensez vous_?" she said, airing her French, which had improved in
quantity, if not in quality, since she came abroad.

"That mademoiselle has made good use of her time, and the result is
charming," replied Laurie, bowing, with his hand on his heart, and an
admiring look.

She blushed with pleasure, but somehow the compliment did not satisfy
her like the blunt praises he used to give her at home, when he
promenaded round her on festival occasions, and told her she was
"altogether jolly," with a hearty smile and an approving pat on the
head. She didn't like the new tone; for, though not _blasé_, it sounded
indifferent in spite of the look.

"If that's the way he's going to grow up, I wish he'd stay a boy," she
thought, with a curious sense of disappointment and discomfort, trying
meantime to seem quite easy and gay.

At Avigdor's she found the precious home-letters, and, giving the reins
to Laurie, read them luxuriously as they wound up the shady road between
green hedges, where tea-roses bloomed as freshly as in June.

"Beth is very poorly, mother says. I often think I ought to go home, but
they all say 'stay;' so I do, for I shall never have another chance like
this," said Amy, looking sober over one page.

"I think you are right, there; you could do nothing at home, and it is a
great comfort to them to know that you are well and happy, and enjoying
so much, my dear."

He drew a little nearer, and looked more like his old self, as he said
that; and the fear that sometimes weighed on Amy's heart was lightened,
for the look, the act, the brotherly "my dear," seemed to assure her
that if any trouble did come, she would not be alone in a strange land.
Presently she laughed, and showed him a small sketch of Jo in her
scribbling-suit, with the bow rampantly erect upon her cap, and issuing
from her mouth the words, "Genius burns!"

Laurie smiled, took it, put it in his vest-pocket, "to keep it from
blowing away," and listened with interest to the lively letter Amy read
him.

"This will be a regularly merry Christmas to me, with presents in the
morning, you and letters in the afternoon, and a party at night," said
Amy, as they alighted among the ruins of the old fort, and a flock of
splendid peacocks came trooping about them, tamely waiting to be fed.
While Amy stood laughing on the bank above him as she scattered crumbs
to the brilliant birds, Laurie looked at her as she had looked at him,
with a natural curiosity to see what changes time and absence had
wrought. He found nothing to perplex or disappoint, much to admire and
approve; for, overlooking a few little affectations of speech and
manner, she was as sprightly and graceful as ever, with the addition of
that indescribable something in dress and bearing which we call
elegance. Always mature for her age, she had gained a certain _aplomb_
in both carriage and conversation, which made her seem more of a woman
of the world than she was; but her old petulance now and then showed
itself, her strong will still held its own, and her native frankness was
unspoiled by foreign polish.

Laurie did not read all this while he watched her feed the peacocks, but
he saw enough to satisfy and interest him, and carried away a pretty
little picture of a bright-faced girl standing in the sunshine, which
brought out the soft hue of her dress, the fresh color of her cheeks,
the golden gloss of her hair, and made her a prominent figure in the
pleasant scene.

As they came up on to the stone plateau that crowns the hill, Amy waved
her hand as if welcoming him to her favorite haunt, and said, pointing
here and there,--

"Do you remember the Cathedral and the Corso, the fishermen dragging
their nets in the bay, and the lovely road to Villa Franca, Schubert's
Tower, just below, and, best of all, that speck far out to sea which
they say is Corsica?"

"I remember; it's not much changed," he answered, without enthusiasm.

"What Jo would give for a sight of that famous speck!" said Amy, feeling
in good spirits, and anxious to see him so also.

"Yes," was all he said, but he turned and strained his eyes to see the
island which a greater usurper than even Napoleon now made interesting
in his sight.

"Take a good look at it for her sake, and then come and tell me what you
have been doing with yourself all this while," said Amy, seating
herself, ready for a good talk.

But she did not get it; for, though he joined her, and answered all her
questions freely, she could only learn that he had roved about the
continent and been to Greece. So, after idling away an hour, they drove
home again; and, having paid his respects to Mrs. Carrol, Laurie left
them, promising to return in the evening.

It must be recorded of Amy that she deliberately "prinked" that night.
Time and absence had done its work on both the young people; she had
seen her old friend in a new light, not as "our boy," but as a handsome
and agreeable man, and she was conscious of a very natural desire to
find favor in his sight. Amy knew her good points, and made the most of
them, with the taste and skill which is a fortune to a poor and pretty
woman.

Tarlatan and tulle were cheap at Nice, so she enveloped herself in them
on such occasions, and, following the sensible English fashion of simple
dress for young girls, got up charming little toilettes with fresh
flowers, a few trinkets, and all manner of dainty devices, which were
both inexpensive and effective. It must be confessed that the artist
sometimes got possession of the woman, and indulged in antique
_coiffures_, statuesque attitudes, and classic draperies. But, dear
heart, we all have our little weaknesses, and find it easy to pardon
such in the young, who satisfy our eyes with their comeliness, and keep
our hearts merry with their artless vanities.

"I do want him to think I look well, and tell them so at home," said Amy
to herself, as she put on Flo's old white silk ball-dress, and covered
it with a cloud of fresh illusion, out of which her white shoulders and
golden head emerged with a most artistic effect. Her hair she had the
sense to let alone, after gathering up the thick waves and curls into a
Hebe-like knot at the back of her head.

"It's not the fashion, but it's becoming, and I can't afford to make a
fright of myself," she used to say, when advised to frizzle, puff, or
braid, as the latest style commanded.

Having no ornaments fine enough for this important occasion, Amy looped
her fleecy skirts with rosy clusters of azalea, and framed the white
shoulders in delicate green vines. Remembering the painted boots, she
surveyed her white satin slippers with girlish satisfaction, and
_chasséed_ down the room, admiring her aristocratic feet all by herself.

"My new fan just matches my flowers, my gloves fit to a charm, and the
real lace on aunt's _mouchoir_ gives an air to my whole dress. If I only
had a classical nose and mouth I should be perfectly happy," she said,
surveying herself with a critical eye, and a candle in each hand.

In spite of this affliction, she looked unusually gay and graceful as
she glided away; she seldom ran,--it did not suit her style, she
thought, for, being tall, the stately and Junoesque was more appropriate
than the sportive or piquante. She walked up and down the long saloon
while waiting for Laurie, and once arranged herself under the
chandelier, which had a good effect upon her hair; then she thought
better of it, and went away to the other end of the room, as if ashamed
of the girlish desire to have the first view a propitious one. It so
happened that she could not have done a better thing, for Laurie came in
so quietly she did not hear him; and, as she stood at the distant
window, with her head half turned, and one hand gathering up her dress,
the slender, white figure against the red curtains was as effective as a
well-placed statue.

"Good evening, Diana!" said Laurie, with the look of satisfaction she
liked to see in his eyes when they rested on her.

"Good evening, Apollo!" she answered, smiling back at him, for he, too,
looked unusually _debonnaire_, and the thought of entering the ball-room
on the arm of such a personable man caused Amy to pity the four plain
Misses Davis from the bottom of her heart.

"Here are your flowers; I arranged them myself, remembering that you
didn't like what Hannah calls a 'sot-bookay,'" said Laurie, handing her
a delicate nosegay, in a holder that she had long coveted as she daily
passed it in Cardiglia's window.

                  [Illustration: Here are your flowers]

"How kind you are!" she exclaimed gratefully. "If I'd known you were
coming I'd have had something ready for you to-day, though not as pretty
as this, I'm afraid."

"Thank you; it isn't what it should be, but you have improved it," he
added, as she snapped the silver bracelet on her wrist.

"Please don't."

"I thought you liked that sort of thing?"

"Not from you; it doesn't sound natural, and I like your old bluntness
better."

"I'm glad of it," he answered, with a look of relief; then buttoned her
gloves for her, and asked if his tie was straight, just as he used to do
when they went to parties together, at home.

The company assembled in the long _salle à manger_, that evening, was
such as one sees nowhere but on the Continent. The hospitable Americans
had invited every acquaintance they had in Nice, and, having no
prejudice against titles, secured a few to add lustre to their Christmas
ball.

A Russian prince condescended to sit in a corner for an hour, and talk
with a massive lady, dressed like Hamlet's mother, in black velvet, with
a pearl bridle under her chin. A Polish count, aged eighteen, devoted
himself to the ladies, who pronounced him "a fascinating dear," and a
German Serene Something, having come for the supper alone, roamed
vaguely about, seeking what he might devour. Baron Rothschild's private
secretary, a large-nosed Jew, in tight boots, affably beamed upon the
world, as if his master's name crowned him with a golden halo; a stout
Frenchman, who knew the Emperor, came to indulge his mania for dancing,
and Lady de Jones, a British matron, adorned the scene with her little
family of eight. Of course, there were many light-footed, shrill-voiced
American girls, handsome, lifeless-looking English ditto, and a few
plain but piquante French demoiselles; likewise the usual set of
travelling young gentlemen, who disported themselves gayly, while mammas
of all nations lined the walls, and smiled upon them benignly when they
danced with their daughters.

Any young girl can imagine Amy's state of mind when she "took the stage"
that night, leaning on Laurie's arm. She knew she looked well, she loved
to dance, she felt that her foot was on her native heath in a ball-room,
and enjoyed the delightful sense of power which comes when young girls
first discover the new and lovely kingdom they are born to rule by
virtue of beauty, youth, and womanhood. She did pity the Davis girls,
who were awkward, plain, and destitute of escort, except a grim papa and
three grimmer maiden aunts, and she bowed to them in her friendliest
manner as she passed; which was good of her, as it permitted them to see
her dress, and burn with curiosity to know who her distinguished-looking
friend might be. With the first burst of the band, Amy's color rose, her
eyes began to sparkle, and her feet to tap the floor impatiently; for
she danced well, and wanted Laurie to know it: therefore the shock she
received can better be imagined than described, when he said, in a
perfectly tranquil tone,--

"Do you care to dance?"

"One usually does at a ball."

Her amazed look and quick answer caused Laurie to repair his error as
fast as possible.

"I meant the first dance. May I have the honor?"

"I can give you one if I put off the Count. He dances divinely; but he
will excuse me, as you are an old friend," said Amy, hoping that the
name would have a good effect, and show Laurie that she was not to be
trifled with.

"Nice little boy, but rather a short Pole to support

        "'A daughter of the gods,
          Divinely tall, and most divinely fair,'"

was all the satisfaction she got, however.

The set in which they found themselves was composed of English, and Amy
was compelled to walk decorously through a cotillon, feeling all the
while as if she could dance the Tarantula with a relish. Laurie resigned
her to the "nice little boy," and went to do his duty to Flo, without
securing Amy for the joys to come, which reprehensible want of
forethought was properly punished, for she immediately engaged herself
till supper, meaning to relent if he then gave any signs of penitence.
She showed him her ball-book with demure satisfaction when he strolled,
instead of rushing, up to claim her for the next, a glorious
polka-redowa; but his polite regrets didn't impose upon her, and when
she gallopaded away with the Count, she saw Laurie sit down by her aunt
with an actual expression of relief.

That was unpardonable; and Amy took no more notice of him for a long
while, except a word now and then, when she came to her chaperon,
between the dances, for a necessary pin or a moment's rest. Her anger
had a good effect, however, for she hid it under a smiling face, and
seemed unusually blithe and brilliant. Laurie's eyes followed her with
pleasure, for she neither romped nor sauntered, but danced with spirit
and grace, making the delightsome pastime what it should be. He very
naturally fell to studying her from this new point of view; and, before
the evening was half over, had decided that "little Amy was going to
make a very charming woman."

It was a lively scene, for soon the spirit of the social season took
possession of every one, and Christmas merriment made all faces shine,
hearts happy, and heels light. The musicians fiddled, tooted, and banged
as if they enjoyed it; everybody danced who could, and those who
couldn't admired their neighbors with uncommon warmth. The air was dark
with Davises, and many Joneses gambolled like a flock of young giraffes.
The golden secretary darted through the room like a meteor, with a
dashing Frenchwoman, who carpeted the floor with her pink satin train.
The Serene Teuton found the supper-table, and was happy, eating steadily
through the bill of fare, and dismayed the _garçons_ by the ravages he
committed. But the Emperor's friend covered himself with glory, for he
danced everything, whether he knew it or not, and introduced impromptu
pirouettes when the figures bewildered him. The boyish abandon of that
stout man was charming to behold; for, though he "carried weight," he
danced like an india-rubber ball. He ran, he flew, he pranced; his face
glowed, his bald head shone; his coat-tails waved wildly, his pumps
actually twinkled in the air, and when the music stopped, he wiped the
drops from his brow, and beamed upon his fellow-men like a French
Pickwick without glasses.

Amy and her Pole distinguished themselves by equal enthusiasm, but more
graceful agility; and Laurie found himself involuntarily keeping time to
the rhythmic rise and fall of the white slippers as they flew by as
indefatigably as if winged. When little Vladimir finally relinquished
her, with assurances that he was "desolated to leave so early," she was
ready to rest, and see how her recreant knight had borne his punishment.

It had been successful; for, at three-and-twenty, blighted affections
find a balm in friendly society, and young nerves will thrill, young
blood dance, and healthy young spirits rise, when subjected to the
enchantment of beauty, light, music, and motion. Laurie had a waked-up
look as he rose to give her his seat; and when he hurried away to bring
her some supper, she said to herself, with a satisfied smile,--

"Ah, I thought that would do him good!"

"You look like Balzac's 'Femme peinte par elle-même,'" he said, as he
fanned her with one hand, and held her coffee-cup in the other.

"My rouge won't come off;" and Amy rubbed her brilliant cheek, and
showed him her white glove with a sober simplicity that made him laugh
outright.

"What do you call this stuff?" he asked, touching a fold of her dress
that had blown over his knee.

"Illusion."

"Good name for it; it's very pretty--new thing, isn't it?"

"It's as old as the hills; you have seen it on dozens of girls, and you
never found out that it was pretty till now--_stupide_!"

"I never saw it on you before, which accounts for the mistake, you see."

"None of that, it is forbidden; I'd rather take coffee than compliments
just now. No, don't lounge, it makes me nervous."

Laurie sat bolt upright, and meekly took her empty plate, feeling an odd
sort of pleasure in having "little Amy" order him about; for she had
lost her shyness now, and felt an irresistible desire to trample on him,
as girls have a delightful way of doing when lords of creation show any
signs of subjection.

"Where did you learn all this sort of thing?" he asked, with a quizzical
look.

"As 'this sort of thing' is rather a vague expression, would you kindly
explain?" returned Amy, knowing perfectly well what he meant, but
wickedly leaving him to describe what is indescribable.

"Well--the general air, the style, the self-possession,
the--the--illusion--you know," laughed Laurie, breaking down, and
helping himself out of his quandary with the new word.

Amy was gratified, but, of course, didn't show it, and demurely
answered, "Foreign life polishes one in spite of one's self; I study as
well as play; and as for this"--with a little gesture toward her
dress--"why, tulle is cheap, posies to be had for nothing, and I am used
to making the most of my poor little things."

Amy rather regretted that last sentence, fearing it wasn't in good
taste; but Laurie liked her the better for it, and found himself both
admiring and respecting the brave patience that made the most of
opportunity, and the cheerful spirit that covered poverty with flowers.
Amy did not know why he looked at her so kindly, nor why he filled up
her book with his own name, and devoted himself to her for the rest of
the evening, in the most delightful manner; but the impulse that wrought
this agreeable change was the result of one of the new impressions which
both of them were unconsciously giving and receiving.

                     [Illustration: Demi and Daisy]

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

completion: New Impressions At Christmas, Laurie comes to Nice to see Amy. They are delighted to have reminders of home. Amy feels often that she ought to go home to see Beth, but her family says stay. Laurie and Amy gather new impressions of each other after a year apart. Both feel the other have grown from children into young adults. Amy, who does not know about Laurie's proposal and Jo's rejection, finds Laurie a bit indifferent and almost blase. Laurie finds Amy an elegant and graceful young woman, but maintaining her native spirit. Amy invites Laurie to a Christmas ball that evening, and arranges herself quite nicely to make a good impression on the gentleman. Laurie does admire and compliment her, but she encourages him to be blunt and natural, like they were at home. Laurie's casual attitude toward her frustrates Amy, who is in high demand by other gentlemen. Watching her dance, lively and properly, Laurie grows in admiration, and is much more attentive when she returns. He is impressed that she has made so much of her opportunity to live and travel overseas. He signs up for all of the remaining dances, and the two enjoy a lovely evening together