prompt:
Chapter: XXXII. TENDER TROUBLES.

"Jo, I'm anxious about Beth."

"Why, mother, she has seemed unusually well since the babies came."

"It's not her health that troubles me now; it's her spirits. I'm sure
there is something on her mind, and I want you to discover what it is."

"What makes you think so, mother?"

"She sits alone a good deal, and doesn't talk to her father as much as
she used. I found her crying over the babies the other day. When she
sings, the songs are always sad ones, and now and then I see a look in
her face that I don't understand. This isn't like Beth, and it worries
me."

"Have you asked her about it?"

"I have tried once or twice; but she either evaded my questions, or
looked so distressed that I stopped. I never force my children's
confidence, and I seldom have to wait for it long."

Mrs. March glanced at Jo as she spoke, but the face opposite seemed
quite unconscious of any secret disquietude but Beth's; and, after
sewing thoughtfully for a minute, Jo said,--

"I think she is growing up, and so begins to dream dreams, and have
hopes and fears and fidgets, without knowing why, or being able to
explain them. Why, mother, Beth's eighteen, but we don't realize it, and
treat her like a child, forgetting she's a woman."

"So she is. Dear heart, how fast you do grow up," returned her mother,
with a sigh and a smile.

"Can't be helped, Marmee, so you must resign yourself to all sorts of
worries, and let your birds hop out of the nest, one by one. I promise
never to hop very far, if that is any comfort to you."

"It is a great comfort, Jo; I always feel strong when you are at home,
now Meg is gone. Beth is too feeble and Amy too young to depend upon;
but when the tug comes, you are always ready."

"Why, you know I don't mind hard jobs much, and there must always be one
scrub in a family. Amy is splendid in fine works, and I'm not; but I
feel in my element when all the carpets are to be taken up, or half the
family fall sick at once. Amy is distinguishing herself abroad; but if
anything is amiss at home, I'm your man."

"I leave Beth to your hands, then, for she will open her tender little
heart to her Jo sooner than to any one else. Be very kind, and don't let
her think any one watches or talks about her. If she only would get
quite strong and cheerful again, I shouldn't have a wish in the world."

"Happy woman! I've got heaps."

"My dear, what are they?"

"I'll settle Bethy's troubles, and then I'll tell you mine. They are not
very wearing, so they'll keep;" and Jo stitched away, with a wise nod
which set her mother's heart at rest about her, for the present at
least.

While apparently absorbed in her own affairs, Jo watched Beth; and,
after many conflicting conjectures, finally settled upon one which
seemed to explain the change in her. A slight incident gave Jo the clue
to the mystery, she thought, and lively fancy, loving heart did the
rest. She was affecting to write busily one Saturday afternoon, when she
and Beth were alone together; yet as she scribbled, she kept her eye on
her sister, who seemed unusually quiet. Sitting at the window, Beth's
work often dropped into her lap, and she leaned her head upon her hand,
in a dejected attitude, while her eyes rested on the dull, autumnal
landscape. Suddenly some one passed below, whistling like an operatic
blackbird, and a voice called out,--

           [Illustration: She leaned her head upon her hands]

"All serene! Coming in to-night."

Beth started, leaned forward, smiled and nodded, watched the passer-by
till his quick tramp died away, then said softly, as if to herself,--

"How strong and well and happy that dear boy looks."

"Hum!" said Jo, still intent upon her sister's face; for the bright
color faded as quickly as it came, the smile vanished, and presently a
tear lay shining on the window-ledge. Beth whisked it off, and glanced
apprehensively at Jo; but she was scratching away at a tremendous rate,
apparently engrossed in "Olympia's Oath." The instant Beth turned, Jo
began her watch again, saw Beth's hand go quietly to her eyes more than
once, and, in her half-averted face, read a tender sorrow that made her
own eyes fill. Fearing to betray herself, she slipped away, murmuring
something about needing more paper.

"Mercy on me, Beth loves Laurie!" she said, sitting down in her own
room, pale with the shock of the discovery which she believed she had
just made. "I never dreamt of such a thing. What _will_ mother say? I
wonder if he--" there Jo stopped, and turned scarlet with a sudden
thought. "If he shouldn't love back again, how dreadful it would be. He
must; I'll make him!" and she shook her head threateningly at the
picture of the mischievous-looking boy laughing at her from the wall.
"Oh dear, we _are_ growing up with a vengeance. Here's Meg married and a
mamma, Amy flourishing away at Paris, and Beth in love. I'm the only one
that has sense enough to keep out of mischief." Jo thought intently for
a minute, with her eyes fixed on the picture; then she smoothed out her
wrinkled forehead, and said, with a decided nod at the face opposite,
"No, thank you, sir; you're very charming, but you've no more stability
than a weathercock; so you needn't write touching notes, and smile in
that insinuating way, for it won't do a bit of good, and I won't have
it."

Then she sighed, and fell into a reverie, from which she did not wake
till the early twilight sent her down to take new observations, which
only confirmed her suspicion. Though Laurie flirted with Amy and joked
with Jo, his manner to Beth had always been peculiarly kind and gentle,
but so was everybody's; therefore, no one thought of imagining that he
cared more for her than for the others. Indeed, a general impression had
prevailed in the family, of late, that "our boy" was getting fonder than
ever of Jo, who, however, wouldn't hear a word upon the subject, and
scolded violently if any one dared to suggest it. If they had known the
various tender passages of the past year, or rather attempts at tender
passages which had been nipped in the bud, they would have had the
immense satisfaction of saying, "I told you so." But Jo hated
"philandering," and wouldn't allow it, always having a joke or a smile
ready at the least sign of impending danger.

When Laurie first went to college, he fell in love about once a month;
but these small flames were as brief as ardent, did no damage, and much
amused Jo, who took great interest in the alternations of hope, despair,
and resignation, which were confided to her in their weekly
conferences. But there came a time when Laurie ceased to worship at many
shrines, hinted darkly at one all-absorbing passion, and indulged
occasionally in Byronic fits of gloom. Then he avoided the tender
subject altogether, wrote philosophical notes to Jo, turned studious,
and gave out that he was going to "dig," intending to graduate in a
blaze of glory. This suited the young lady better than twilight
confidences, tender pressures of the hand, and eloquent glances of the
eye; for with Jo, brain developed earlier than heart, and she preferred
imaginary heroes to real ones, because, when tired of them, the former
could be shut up in the tin-kitchen till called for, and the latter were
less manageable.

Things were in this state when the grand discovery was made, and Jo
watched Laurie that night as she had never done before. If she had not
got the new idea into her head, she would have seen nothing unusual in
the fact that Beth was very quiet, and Laurie very kind to her. But
having given the rein to her lively fancy, it galloped away with her at
a great pace; and common sense, being rather weakened by a long course
of romance writing, did not come to the rescue. As usual, Beth lay on
the sofa, and Laurie sat in a low chair close by, amusing her with all
sorts of gossip; for she depended on her weekly "spin," and he never
disappointed her. But that evening, Jo fancied that Beth's eyes rested
on the lively, dark face beside her with peculiar pleasure, and that she
listened with intense interest to an account of some exciting
cricket-match, though the phrases, "caught off a tice," "stumped off his
ground," and "the leg hit for three," were as intelligible to her as
Sanscrit. She also fancied, having set her heart upon seeing it, that
she saw a certain increase of gentleness in Laurie's manner, that he
dropped his voice now and then, laughed less than usual, was a little
absent-minded, and settled the afghan over Beth's feet with an assiduity
that was really almost tender.

"Who knows? stranger things have happened," thought Jo, as she fussed
about the room. "She will make quite an angel of him, and he will make
life delightfully easy and pleasant for the dear, if they only love each
other. I don't see how he can help it; and I do believe he would if the
rest of us were out of the way."

As every one _was_ out of the way but herself, Jo began to feel that
she ought to dispose of herself with all speed. But where should she go?
and burning to lay herself upon the shrine of sisterly devotion, she sat
down to settle that point.

Now, the old sofa was a regular patriarch of a sofa,--long, broad,
well-cushioned, and low; a trifle shabby, as well it might be, for the
girls had slept and sprawled on it as babies, fished over the back, rode
on the arms, and had menageries under it as children, and rested tired
heads, dreamed dreams, and listened to tender talk on it as young women.
They all loved it, for it was a family refuge, and one corner had always
been Jo's favorite lounging-place. Among the many pillows that adorned
the venerable couch was one, hard, round, covered with prickly
horsehair, and furnished with a knobby button at each end; this
repulsive pillow was her especial property, being used as a weapon of
defence, a barricade, or a stern preventive of too much slumber.

Laurie knew this pillow well, and had cause to regard it with deep
aversion, having been unmercifully pummelled with it in former days,
when romping was allowed, and now frequently debarred by it from taking
the seat he most coveted, next to Jo in the sofa corner. If "the
sausage" as they called it, stood on end, it was a sign that he might
approach and repose; but if it lay flat across the sofa, woe to the man,
woman, or child who dared disturb it! That evening Jo forgot to
barricade her corner, and had not been in her seat five minutes, before
a massive form appeared beside her, and, with both arms spread over the
sofa-back, both long legs stretched out before him, Laurie exclaimed,
with a sigh of satisfaction,--

"Now, _this_ is filling at the price."

           [Illustration: Now, this is filling at the price]

"No slang," snapped Jo, slamming down the pillow. But it was too late,
there was no room for it; and, coasting on to the floor, it disappeared
in a most mysterious manner.

"Come, Jo, don't be thorny. After studying himself to a skeleton all the
week, a fellow deserves petting, and ought to get it."

"Beth will pet you; I'm busy."

"No, she's not to be bothered with me; but you like that sort of thing,
unless you've suddenly lost your taste for it. Have you? Do you hate
your boy, and want to fire pillows at him?"

Anything more wheedlesome than that touching appeal was seldom heard,
but Jo quenched "her boy" by turning on him with the stern query,--

"How many bouquets have you sent Miss Randal this week?"

"Not one, upon my word. She's engaged. Now then."

"I'm glad of it; that's one of your foolish extravagances,--sending
flowers and things to girls for whom you don't care two pins," continued
Jo reprovingly.

"Sensible girls, for whom I do care whole papers of pins, won't let me
send them 'flowers and things,' so what can I do? My feelings must have
a _went_."

"Mother doesn't approve of flirting, even in fun; and you do flirt
desperately, Teddy."

"I'd give anything if I could answer, 'So do you.' As I can't, I'll
merely say that I don't see any harm in that pleasant little game, if
all parties understand that it's only play."

"Well, it does look pleasant, but I can't learn how it's done. I've
tried, because one feels awkward in company, not to do as everybody else
is doing; but I don't seem to get on," said Jo, forgetting to play
Mentor.

"Take lessons of Amy; she has a regular talent for it."

"Yes, she does it very prettily, and never seems to go too far. I
suppose it's natural to some people to please without trying, and others
to always say and do the wrong thing in the wrong place."

"I'm glad you can't flirt; it's really refreshing to see a sensible,
straightforward girl, who can be jolly and kind without making a fool of
herself. Between ourselves, Jo, some of the girls I know really do go on
at such a rate I'm ashamed of them. They don't mean any harm, I'm sure;
but if they knew how we fellows talked about them afterward, they'd mend
their ways, I fancy."

"They do the same; and, as their tongues are the sharpest, you fellows
get the worst of it, for you are as silly as they, every bit. If you
behaved properly, they would; but, knowing you like their nonsense, they
keep it up, and then you blame them."

"Much you know about it, ma'am," said Laurie, in a superior tone. "We
don't like romps and flirts, though we may act as if we did sometimes.
The pretty, modest girls are never talked about, except respectfully,
among gentlemen. Bless your innocent soul! If you could be in my place
for a month you'd see things that would astonish you a trifle. Upon my
word, when I see one of those harum-scarum girls, I always want to say
with our friend Cock Robin,--

        "'Out upon you, fie upon you,
           Bold-faced jig!'"

It was impossible to help laughing at the funny conflict between
Laurie's chivalrous reluctance to speak ill of womankind, and his very
natural dislike of the unfeminine folly of which fashionable society
showed him many samples. Jo knew that "young Laurence" was regarded as a
most eligible _parti_ by worldly mammas, was much smiled upon by their
daughters, and flattered enough by ladies of all ages to make a coxcomb
of him; so she watched him rather jealously, fearing he would be spoilt,
and rejoiced more than she confessed to find that he still believed in
modest girls. Returning suddenly to her admonitory tone, she said,
dropping her voice, "If you _must_ have a 'went,' Teddy, go and devote
yourself to one of the 'pretty, modest girls' whom you do respect, and
not waste your time with the silly ones."

"You really advise it?" and Laurie looked at her with an odd mixture of
anxiety and merriment in his face.

"Yes, I do; but you'd better wait till you are through college, on the
whole, and be fitting yourself for the place meantime. You're not half
good enough for--well, whoever the modest girl maybe," and Jo looked a
little queer likewise, for a name had almost escaped her.

"That I'm not!" acquiesced Laurie, with an expression of humility quite
new to him, as he dropped his eyes, and absently wound Jo's apron-tassel
round his finger.

"Mercy on us, this will never do," thought Jo; adding aloud, "Go and
sing to me. I'm dying for some music, and always like yours."

"I'd rather stay here, thank you."

"Well, you can't; there isn't room. Go and make yourself useful, since
you are too big to be ornamental. I thought you hated to be tied to a
woman's apron-string?" retorted Jo, quoting certain rebellious words of
his own.

"Ah, that depends on who wears the apron!" and Laurie gave an audacious
tweak at the tassel.

"Are you going?" demanded Jo, diving for the pillow.

He fled at once, and the minute it was well "Up with the bonnets of
bonnie Dundee," she slipped away, to return no more till the young
gentleman had departed in high dudgeon.

          [Illustration: Up with the Bonnets of Bonnie Dundee]

Jo lay long awake that night, and was just dropping off when the sound
of a stifled sob made her fly to Beth's bedside, with the anxious
inquiry, "What is it, dear?"

"I thought you were asleep," sobbed Beth.

"Is it the old pain, my precious?"

"No; it's a new one; but I can bear it," and Beth tried to check her
tears.

"Tell me all about it, and let me cure it as I often did the other."

"You can't; there is no cure." There Beth's voice gave way, and,
clinging to her sister, she cried so despairingly that Jo was
frightened.

"Where is it? Shall I call mother?"

Beth did not answer the first question; but in the dark one hand went
involuntarily to her heart, as if the pain were there; with the other
she held Jo fast, whispering eagerly, "No, no, don't call her, don't
tell her. I shall be better soon. Lie down here and 'poor' my head. I'll
be quiet, and go to sleep; indeed I will."

Jo obeyed; but as her hand went softly to and fro across Beth's hot
forehead and wet eyelids, her heart was very full, and she longed to
speak. But young as she was, Jo had learned that hearts, like flowers,
cannot be rudely handled, but must open naturally; so, though she
believed she knew the cause of Beth's new pain, she only said, in her
tenderest tone, "Does anything trouble you, deary?"

"Yes, Jo," after a long pause.

"Wouldn't it comfort you to tell me what it is?"

"Not now, not yet."

"Then I won't ask; but remember, Bethy, that mother and Jo are always
glad to hear and help you, if they can."

"I know it. I'll tell you by and by."

"Is the pain better now?"

"Oh, yes, much better; you are so comfortable, Jo!"

"Go to sleep, dear; I'll stay with you."

So cheek to cheek they fell asleep, and on the morrow Beth seemed quite
herself again; for at eighteen, neither heads nor hearts ache long, and
a loving word can medicine most ills.

But Jo had made up her mind, and, after pondering over a project for
some days, she confided it to her mother.

"You asked me the other day what my wishes were. I'll tell you one of
them, Marmee," she began, as they sat alone together. "I want to go away
somewhere this winter for a change."

"Why, Jo?" and her mother looked up quickly, as if the words suggested a
double meaning.

With her eyes on her work, Jo answered soberly, "I want something new; I
feel restless, and anxious to be seeing, doing, and learning more than I
am. I brood too much over my own small affairs, and need stirring up,
so, as I can be spared this winter, I'd like to hop a little way, and
try my wings."

"Where will you hop?"

"To New York. I had a bright idea yesterday, and this is it. You know
Mrs. Kirke wrote to you for some respectable young person to teach her
children and sew. It's rather hard to find just the thing, but I think I
should suit if I tried."

"My dear, go out to service in that great boarding-house!" and Mrs.
March looked surprised, but not displeased.

"It's not exactly going out to service; for Mrs. Kirke is your
friend,--the kindest soul that ever lived,--and would make things
pleasant for me, I know. Her family is separate from the rest, and no
one knows me there. Don't care if they do; it's honest work, and I'm not
ashamed of it."

"Nor I; but your writing?"

"All the better for the change. I shall see and hear new things, get new
ideas, and, even if I haven't much time there, I shall bring home
quantities of material for my rubbish."

"I have no doubt of it; but are these your only reasons for this sudden
fancy?"

"No, mother."

"May I know the others?"

Jo looked up and Jo looked down, then said slowly, with sudden color in
her cheeks, "It may be vain and wrong to say it, but--I'm afraid--Laurie
is getting too fond of me."

"Then you don't care for him in the way it is evident he begins to care
for you?" and Mrs. March looked anxious as she put the question.

"Mercy, no! I love the dear boy, as I always have, and am immensely
proud of him; but as for anything more, it's out of the question."

"I'm glad of that, Jo."

"Why, please?"

"Because, dear, I don't think you suited to one another. As friends you
are very happy, and your frequent quarrels soon blow over; but I fear
you would both rebel if you were mated for life. You are too much alike
and too fond of freedom, not to mention hot tempers and strong wills, to
get on happily together, in a relation which needs infinite patience and
forbearance, as well as love."

"That's just the feeling I had, though I couldn't express it. I'm glad
you think he is only beginning to care for me. It would trouble me sadly
to make him unhappy; for I couldn't fall in love with the dear old
fellow merely out of gratitude, could I?"

"You are sure of his feeling for you?"

The color deepened in Jo's cheeks, as she answered, with the look of
mingled pleasure, pride, and pain which young girls wear when speaking
of first lovers,--

"I'm afraid it is so, mother; he hasn't said anything, but he looks a
great deal. I think I had better go away before it comes to anything."

"I agree with you, and if it can be managed you shall go."

Jo looked relieved, and, after a pause, said, smiling, "How Mrs. Moffat
would wonder at your want of management, if she knew; and how she will
rejoice that Annie still may hope."

"Ah, Jo, mothers may differ in their management, but the hope is the
same in all,--the desire to see their children happy. Meg is so, and I
am content with her success. You I leave to enjoy your liberty till you
tire of it; for only then will you find that there is something sweeter.
Amy is my chief care now, but her good sense will help her. For Beth, I
indulge no hopes except that she may be well. By the way, she seems
brighter this last day or two. Have you spoken to her?"

"Yes; she owned she had a trouble, and promised to tell me by and by. I
said no more, for I think I know it;" and Jo told her little story.

Mrs. March shook her head, and did not take so romantic a view of the
case, but looked grave, and repeated her opinion that, for Laurie's
sake, Jo should go away for a time.

"Let us say nothing about it to him till the plan is settled; then I'll
run away before he can collect his wits and be tragical. Beth must think
I'm going to please myself, as I am, for I can't talk about Laurie to
her; but she can pet and comfort him after I'm gone, and so cure him of
this romantic notion. He's been through so many little trials of the
sort, he's used to it, and will soon get over his love-lornity."

Jo spoke hopefully, but could not rid herself of the foreboding fear
that this "little trial" would be harder than the others, and that
Laurie would not get over his "love-lornity" as easily as heretofore.

The plan was talked over in a family council, and agreed upon; for Mrs.
Kirke gladly accepted Jo, and promised to make a pleasant home for her.
The teaching would render her independent; and such leisure as she got
might be made profitable by writing, while the new scenes and society
would be both useful and agreeable. Jo liked the prospect and was eager
to be gone, for the home-nest was growing too narrow for her restless
nature and adventurous spirit. When all was settled, with fear and
trembling she told Laurie; but to her surprise he took it very quietly.
He had been graver than usual of late, but very pleasant; and, when
jokingly accused of turning over a new leaf, he answered soberly, "So I
am; and I mean this one shall stay turned."

Jo was very much relieved that one of his virtuous fits should come on
just then, and made her preparations with a lightened heart,--for Beth
seemed more cheerful,--and hoped she was doing the best for all.

"One thing I leave to your especial care," she said, the night before
she left.

"You mean your papers?" asked Beth.

"No, my boy. Be very good to him, won't you?"

"Of course I will; but I can't fill your place, and he'll miss you
sadly."

"It won't hurt him; so remember, I leave him in your charge, to plague,
pet, and keep in order."

"I'll do my best, for your sake," promised Beth, wondering why Jo looked
at her so queerly.

When Laurie said "Good-by," he whispered significantly, "It won't do a
bit of good, Jo. My eye is on you; so mind what you do, or I'll come and
bring you home."

  [Illustration: I amused myself by dropping gingerbread nuts over the
                                 seat]

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

completion: Marmee tells Jo that she is anxious about Beth, who seems depressed and preoccupied. Jo says that Beth isn't a little girl anymore - she's eighteen and a woman, and probably has her own adult dreams and desires now. Marmee tells Jo that she is very comforting and supportive as an adult daughter. Jo admits that she is best at hard work and coping with crises; she's not graceful or elegant like Amy. Jo promises her mother that she will try to find out what Beth is worrying about. Marmee realizes that Jo has problems too, but Jo says those can wait. Jo watches Beth for a while and thinks about her. One day, she sees how Beth reacts to Laurie shouting out a greeting as he goes by - Beth blushes and even starts tearing up! She decides that Beth must be secretly in love with Laurie. Jo thinks about how she is the only sister who isn't getting romantic - Meg is married, Amy's nearly engaged, and Beth seems to be in love. Everyone seems to think that Laurie is falling for Jo, but Jo hates it when people suggest this. When Laurie went to college, he got interested in one girl after another, but these were always just little infatuations that died away really fast. Now he hints that he's in love with one particular girl, but he won't say who. He studies hard to try and make this mysterious lady proud of him. Now Jo convinces herself that Laurie is especially kind to Beth and that the two of them might pair off. Jo decides that she needs to get herself out of the way so that Laurie can fall in love with Beth without being distracted. She can't figure out where she could go. Sitting on the old sofa, Jo begins to think about how to handle the situation. Usually, when she wants to be alone to think, she uses a prickly old cushion as a barricade. Tonight, she forgets to put it down, and Laurie drops onto the sofa beside her. Jo tries to make Laurie go and talk to Beth, but Laurie wants her to pay attention to him after his week of studying. Jo brings up Miss Randal, the latest college girl on whom Laurie's had a crush. He laughs and says she's engaged to someone else. Jo says that at least that will stop Laurie from wasting money sending her flowers. Laurie says that the girl he wants to send flowers wouldn't like or accept them. Jo tells Laurie to stop flirting. Laurie says it's harmless and he wishes Jo would flirt, too, but then he takes it back and says he likes it that she is straightforward. In fact, Laurie says, he doesn't like really flirtatious girls; he thinks they are un-feminine. Jo is glad that he still likes modest girls and tells him to devote himself to one of them. Laurie asks if she means it and she says that she does. However, she tells him to finish college before pursuing a romance. Laurie plays with the tassel on Jo's apron. Jo orders him to leave her alone and go play some music to entertain her, and jokes that he never wanted to be tied to anyone's apron strings. He says that depends on who is wearing the apron. Jo chases him off with the prickly pillow and leaves the room until he goes home. That night, Jo lies awake thinking for a long time. Just before she falls asleep, she hears Beth crying. Jo goes to Beth's bedside and asks her what is wrong. Beth won't tell her and says there is no cure for her problem. Jo stays with Beth until they both fall asleep. In the morning, Jo tells Marmee that she wants to go away and live somewhere else for the winter. She feels cooped up at home, she says, and wants to experience the world and have adventures. Marmee asks Jo where she will go. Jo says that she will go to New York and be a governess for the two children of their friend Mrs. Kirke, who runs a boarding house. She'll also do domestic tasks, like sewing. Marmee is surprised that Jo wants to serve in a boarding house. Jo says that it's honest work and she'll have time to write. Marmee suspects that there are other reasons Jo wants to leave. Jo says that Laurie is getting too fond of her. Marmee asks Jo if she cares for Laurie in return. Jo says she doesn't, and that she also doesn't think they're suited for one another. Marmee agrees and is relieved. Marmee also asks Jo about Beth. Jo says that she thinks she's figured out Beth's problem, but that Beth still doesn't want to talk about it. The family discuss Jo's plan and agree on it. They write to Mrs. Kirke, who is only too happy to have Jo work for her. When Jo breaks the news to Laurie, he takes it well and doesn't tease or joke. He says he's turned over a new leaf. Jo asks Beth to look after Laurie while she's gone. In his parting words to Jo, Laurie tells her that leaving won't do any good - he's fixated on her and plans to go and fetch her if necessary. Creepiness factor: moderate.


prompt:
Chapter: XXXIII. JO'S JOURNAL.

                                                "NEW YORK, November.

    "DEAR MARMEE AND BETH,--

    "I'm going to write you a regular volume, for I've got heaps to
    tell, though I'm not a fine young lady travelling on the
    continent. When I lost sight of father's dear old face, I felt a
    trifle blue, and might have shed a briny drop or two, if an
    Irish lady with four small children, all crying more or less,
    hadn't diverted my mind; for I amused myself by dropping
    gingerbread nuts over the seat every time they opened their
    mouths to roar.

    "Soon the sun came out, and taking it as a good omen, I cleared
    up likewise, and enjoyed my journey with all my heart.

    "Mrs. Kirke welcomed me so kindly I felt at home at once, even
    in that big house full of strangers. She gave me a funny little
    sky-parlor--all she had; but there is a stove in it, and a nice
    table in a sunny window, so I can sit here and write whenever I
    like. A fine view and a church-tower opposite atone for the many
    stairs, and I took a fancy to my den on the spot. The nursery,
    where I am to teach and sew, is a pleasant room next Mrs.
    Kirke's private parlor, and the two little girls are pretty
    children,--rather spoilt, I fancy, but they took to me after
    telling them 'The Seven Bad Pigs;' and I've no doubt I shall
    make a model governess.

    "I am to have my meals with the children, if I prefer it to the
    great table, and for the present I do, for I _am_ bashful,
    though no one will believe it.

    "'Now, my dear, make yourself at home,' said Mrs. K. in her
    motherly way; 'I'm on the drive from morning to night, as you
    may suppose with such a family; but a great anxiety will be off
    my mind if I know the children are safe with you. My rooms are
    always open to you, and your own shall be as comfortable as I
    can make it. There are some pleasant people in the house if you
    feel sociable, and your evenings are always free. Come to me if
    anything goes wrong, and be as happy as you can. There's the
    tea-bell; I must run and change my cap;' and off she bustled,
    leaving me to settle myself in my new nest.

    "As I went downstairs, soon after, I saw something I liked. The
    flights are very long in this tall house, and as I stood waiting
    at the head of the third one for a little servant girl to lumber
    up, I saw a gentleman come along behind her, take the heavy hod
    of coal out of her hand, carry it all the way up, put it down at
    a door near by, and walk away, saying, with a kind nod and a
    foreign accent,--

    "'It goes better so. The little back is too young to haf such
    heaviness.'

    "Wasn't it good of him? I like such things, for, as father says,
    trifles show character. When I mentioned it to Mrs. K., that
    evening, she laughed, and said,--

    "'That must have been Professor Bhaer; he's always doing things
    of that sort.'

    "Mrs. K. told me he was from Berlin; very learned and good, but
    poor as a church-mouse, and gives lessons to support himself and
    two little orphan nephews whom he is educating here, according
    to the wishes of his sister, who married an American. Not a very
    romantic story, but it interested me; and I was glad to hear
    that Mrs. K. lends him her parlor for some of his scholars.
    There is a glass door between it and the nursery, and I mean to
    peep at him, and then I'll tell you how he looks. He's almost
    forty, so it's no harm, Marmee.

    "After tea and a go-to-bed romp with the little girls, I
    attacked the big work-basket, and had a quiet evening chatting
    with my new friend. I shall keep a journal-letter, and send it
    once a week; so good-night, and more to-morrow."

                                                     "_Tuesday Eve._

    "Had a lively time in my seminary, this morning, for the
    children acted like Sancho; and at one time I really thought I
    should shake them all round. Some good angel inspired me to try
    gymnastics, and I kept it up till they were glad to sit down and
    keep still. After luncheon, the girl took them out for a walk,
    and I went to my needle-work, like little Mabel, 'with a willing
    mind.' I was thanking my stars that I'd learned to make nice
    button-holes, when the parlor-door opened and shut, and some one
    began to hum,--

                         'Kennst du das land,'

    like a big bumble-bee. It was dreadfully improper, I know, but I
    couldn't resist the temptation; and lifting one end of the
    curtain before the glass door, I peeped in. Professor Bhaer was
    there; and while he arranged his books, I took a good look at
    him. A regular German,--rather stout, with brown hair tumbled
    all over his head, a bushy beard, good nose, the kindest eyes I
    ever saw, and a splendid big voice that does one's ears good,
    after our sharp or slipshod American gabble. His clothes were
    rusty, his hands were large, and he hadn't a really handsome
    feature in his face, except his beautiful teeth; yet I liked
    him, for he had a fine head; his linen was very nice, and he
    looked like a gentleman, though two buttons were off his coat,
    and there was a patch on one shoe. He looked sober in spite of
    his humming, till he went to the window to turn the hyacinth
    bulbs toward the sun, and stroke the cat, who received him like
    an old friend. Then he smiled; and when a tap came at the door,
    called out in a loud, brisk tone,--

    "'Herein!'

    "I was just going to run, when I caught sight of a morsel of a
    child carrying a big book, and stopped to see what was going on.

    "'Me wants my Bhaer,' said the mite, slamming down her book, and
    running to meet him.

    "'Thou shalt haf thy Bhaer; come, then, and take a goot hug from
    him, my Tina,' said the Professor, catching her up, with a
    laugh, and holding her so high over his head that she had to
    stoop her little face to kiss him.

                [Illustration: Thou shalt haf thy Bhaer]

    "'Now me mus tuddy my lessin,' went on the funny little thing;
    so he put her up at the table, opened the great dictionary she
    had brought, and gave her a paper and pencil, and she scribbled
    away, turning a leaf now and then, and passing her little fat
    finger down the page, as if finding a word, so soberly that I
    nearly betrayed myself by a laugh, while Mr. Bhaer stood
    stroking her pretty hair, with a fatherly look, that made me
    think she must be his own, though she looked more French than
    German.

    "Another knock and the appearance of two young ladies sent me
    back to my work, and there I virtuously remained through all the
    noise and gabbling that went on next door. One of the girls kept
    laughing affectedly, and saying 'Now Professor,' in a
    coquettish tone, and the other pronounced her German with an
    accent that must have made it hard for him to keep sober.

    "Both seemed to try his patience sorely; for more than once I
    heard him say emphatically, 'No, no, it is _not_ so; you haf not
    attend to what I say;' and once there was a loud rap, as if he
    struck the table with his book, followed by the despairing
    exclamation, 'Prut! it all goes bad this day.'

    "Poor man, I pitied him; and when the girls were gone, took just
    one more peep, to see if he survived it. He seemed to have
    thrown himself back in his chair, tired out, and sat there with
    his eyes shut till the clock struck two, when he jumped up, put
    his books in his pocket, as if ready for another lesson, and,
    taking little Tina, who had fallen asleep on the sofa, in his
    arms, he carried her quietly away. I fancy he has a hard life of
    it.

    "Mrs. Kirke asked me if I wouldn't go down to the five o'clock
    dinner; and, feeling a little bit homesick, I thought I would,
    just to see what sort of people are under the same roof with me.
    So I made myself respectable, and tried to slip in behind Mrs.
    Kirke; but as she is short, and I'm tall, my efforts at
    concealment were rather a failure. She gave me a seat by her,
    and after my face cooled off, I plucked up courage, and looked
    about me. The long table was full, and every one intent on
    getting their dinner,--the gentlemen especially, who seemed to
    be eating on time, for they _bolted_ in every sense of the word,
    vanishing as soon as they were done. There was the usual
    assortment of young men absorbed in themselves; young couples
    absorbed in each other; married ladies in their babies, and old
    gentlemen in politics. I don't think I shall care to have much
    to do with any of them, except one sweet-faced maiden lady, who
    looks as if she had something in her.

    "Cast away at the very bottom of the table was the Professor,
    shouting answers to the questions of a very inquisitive, deaf
    old gentleman on one side, and talking philosophy with a
    Frenchman on the other. If Amy had been here, she'd have turned
    her back on him forever, because, sad to relate, he had a great
    appetite, and shovelled in his dinner in a manner which would
    have horrified 'her ladyship.' I didn't mind, for I like 'to see
    folks eat with a relish,' as Hannah says, and the poor man must
    have needed a deal of food after teaching idiots all day.

    "As I went upstairs after dinner, two of the young men were
    settling their hats before the hall-mirror, and I heard one say
    low to the other, 'Who's the new party?'

    "'Governess, or something of that sort.'

    "'What the deuce is she at our table for?'

    "'Friend of the old lady's.'

    "'Handsome head, but no style.'

    "'Not a bit of it. Give us a light and come on.'

    "I felt angry at first, and then I didn't care, for a governess
    is as good as a clerk, and I've got sense, if I haven't style,
    which is more than some people have, judging from the remarks of
    the elegant beings who clattered away, smoking like bad
    chimneys. I hate ordinary people!"

                                                        "_Thursday._

    "Yesterday was a quiet day, spent in teaching, sewing, and
    writing in my little room, which is very cosey, with a light and
    fire. I picked up a few bits of news, and was introduced to the
    Professor. It seems that Tina is the child of the Frenchwoman
    who does the fine ironing in the laundry here. The little thing
    has lost her heart to Mr. Bhaer, and follows him about the house
    like a dog whenever he is at home, which delights him, as he is
    very fond of children, though a 'bacheldore.' Kitty and Minnie
    Kirke likewise regard him with affection, and tell all sorts of
    stories about the plays he invents, the presents he brings, and
    the splendid tales he tells. The young men quiz him, it seems,
    call him Old Fritz, Lager Beer, Ursa Major, and make all manner
    of jokes on his name. But he enjoys it like a boy, Mrs. K. says,
    and takes it so good-naturedly that they all like him, in spite
    of his foreign ways.

    "The maiden lady is a Miss Norton,--rich, cultivated, and kind.
    She spoke to me at dinner to-day (for I went to table again,
    it's such fun to watch people), and asked me to come and see her
    at her room. She has fine books and pictures, knows interesting
    persons, and seems friendly; so I shall make myself agreeable,
    for I _do_ want to get into good society, only it isn't the same
    sort that Amy likes.

    "I was in our parlor last evening, when Mr. Bhaer came in with
    some newspapers for Mrs. Kirke. She wasn't there, but Minnie,
    who is a little old woman, introduced me very prettily: 'This is
    mamma's friend, Miss March.'

    "'Yes; and she's jolly and we like her lots,' added Kitty, who
    is an _enfant terrible_.

    "We both bowed, and then we laughed, for the prim introduction
    and the blunt addition were rather a comical contrast.

    "'Ah, yes, I hear these naughty ones go to vex you, Mees Marsch.
    If so again, call at me and I come,' he said, with a threatening
    frown that delighted the little wretches.

    "I promised I would, and he departed; but it seems as if I was
    doomed to see a good deal of him, for to-day, as I passed his
    door on my way out, by accident I knocked against it with my
    umbrella. It flew open, and there he stood in his dressing gown,
    with a big blue sock on one hand, and a darning-needle in the
    other; he didn't seem at all ashamed of it, for when I explained
    and hurried on, he waved his hand, sock and all, saying in his
    loud, cheerful way,--

            [Illustration: He waved his hand, sock and all]

    "'You haf a fine day to make your walk. _Bon voyage,
    mademoiselle._'

    "I laughed all the way downstairs; but it was a little pathetic,
    also, to think of the poor man having to mend his own clothes.
    The German gentlemen embroider, I know; but darning hose is
    another thing, and not so pretty."

                                                        "_Saturday._

    "Nothing has happened to write about, except a call on Miss
    Norton, who has a room full of lovely things, and who was very
    charming, for she showed me all her treasures, and asked me if I
    would sometimes go with her to lectures and concerts, as her
    escort,--if I enjoyed them. She put it as a favor, but I'm sure
    Mrs. Kirke has told her about us, and she does it out of
    kindness to me. I'm as proud as Lucifer, but such favors from
    such people don't burden me, and I accepted gratefully.

    "When I got back to the nursery there was such an uproar in the
    parlor that I looked in; and there was Mr. Bhaer down on his
    hands and knees, with Tina on his back, Kitty leading him with a
    jump-rope, and Minnie feeding two small boys with seed-cakes, as
    they roared and ramped in cages built of chairs.

    "'We are playing _nargerie_,' explained Kitty.

    "'Dis is mine effalunt!' added Tina, holding on by the
    Professor's hair.

                  [Illustration: Dis is mine effalunt]

    "'Mamma always allows us to do what we like Saturday afternoon,
    when Franz and Emil come, doesn't she, Mr. Bhaer?' said
    Minnie.

    "The 'effalunt' sat up, looking as much in earnest as any of
    them, and said soberly to me,--

    "'I gif you my wort it is so. If we make too large a noise you
    shall say "Hush!" to us, and we go more softly.'

    "I promised to do so, but left the door open, and enjoyed the
    fun as much as they did,--for a more glorious frolic I never
    witnessed. They played tag and soldiers, danced and sung, and
    when it began to grow dark they all piled on to the sofa about
    the Professor, while he told charming fairy stories of the
    storks on the chimney-tops, and the little 'kobolds,' who ride
    the snow-flakes as they fall. I wish Americans were as simple
    and natural as Germans, don't you?

    "I'm so fond of writing, I should go spinning on forever if
    motives of economy didn't stop me, for though I've used thin
    paper and written fine, I tremble to think of the stamps this
    long letter will need. Pray forward Amy's as soon as you can
    spare them. My small news will sound very flat after her
    splendors, but you will like them, I know. Is Teddy studying so
    hard that he can't find time to write to his friends? Take good
    care of him for me, Beth, and tell me all about the babies, and
    give heaps of love to every one.

                                "From your faithful              JO.

    "P. S. On reading over my letter it strikes me as rather Bhaery;
    but I am always interested in odd people, and I really had
    nothing else to write about. Bless you!"

                                                         "DECEMBER.

    "MY PRECIOUS BETSEY,--

    "As this is to be a scribble-scrabble letter, I direct it to
    you, for it may amuse you, and give you some idea of my goings
    on; for, though quiet, they are rather amusing, for which, oh,
    be joyful! After what Amy would call Herculaneum efforts, in the
    way of mental and moral agriculture, my young ideas begin to
    shoot and my little twigs to bend as I could wish. They are not
    so interesting to me as Tina and the boys, but I do my duty by
    them, and they are fond of me. Franz and Emil are jolly little
    lads, quite after my own heart; for the mixture of German and
    American spirit in them produces a constant state of
    effervescence. Saturday afternoons are riotous times, whether
    spent in the house or out; for on pleasant days they all go to
    walk, like a seminary, with the Professor and myself to keep
    order; and then such fun!

    "We are very good friends now, and I've begun to take lessons. I
    really couldn't help it, and it all came about in such a droll
    way that I must tell you. To begin at the beginning, Mrs. Kirke
    called to me, one day, as I passed Mr. Bhaer's room, where she
    was rummaging.

    "'Did you ever see such a den, my dear? Just come and help me
    put these books to rights, for I've turned everything upside
    down, trying to discover what he has done with the six new
    handkerchiefs I gave him not long ago.'

    "I went in, and while we worked I looked about me, for it was 'a
    den,' to be sure. Books and papers everywhere; a broken
    meerschaum, and an old flute over the mantel-piece as if done
    with; a ragged bird, without any tail, chirped on one
    window-seat, and a box of white mice adorned the other;
    half-finished boats and bits of string lay among the
    manuscripts; dirty little boots stood drying before the fire;
    and traces of the dearly beloved boys, for whom he makes a slave
    of himself, were to be seen all over the room. After a grand
    rummage three of the missing articles were found,--one over the
    bird-cage, one covered with ink, and a third burnt brown, having
    been used as a holder.

    "'Such a man!' laughed good-natured Mrs. K., as she put the
    relics in the rag-bag. 'I suppose the others are torn up to rig
    ships, bandage cut fingers, or make kite-tails. It's dreadful,
    but I can't scold him: he's so absent-minded and good-natured,
    he lets those boys ride over him rough-shod. I agreed to do his
    washing and mending, but he forgets to give out his things and I
    forget to look them over, so he comes to a sad pass sometimes.'

    "'Let me mend them,' said I. 'I don't mind it, and he needn't
    know. I'd like to,--he's so kind to me about bringing my letters
    and lending books.'

    "So I have got his things in order, and knit heels into two
    pairs of the socks,--for they were boggled out of shape with his
    queer darns. Nothing was said, and I hoped he wouldn't find it
    out, but one day last week he caught me at it. Hearing the
    lessons he gives to others has interested and amused me so much
    that I took a fancy to learn; for Tina runs in and out, leaving
    the door open, and I can hear. I had been sitting near this
    door, finishing off the last sock, and trying to understand what
    he said to a new scholar, who is as stupid as I am. The girl had
    gone, and I thought he had also, it was so still, and I was
    busily gabbling over a verb, and rocking to and fro in a most
    absurd way, when a little crow made me look up, and there was
    Mr. Bhaer looking and laughing quietly, while he made signs to
    Tina not to betray him.

    "'So!' he said, as I stopped and stared like a goose, 'you peep
    at me, I peep at you, and that is not bad; but see, I am not
    pleasanting when I say, haf you a wish for German?'

    "'Yes; but you are too busy. I am too stupid to learn,' I
    blundered out, as red as a peony.

    "'Prut! we will make the time, and we fail not to find the
    sense. At efening I shall gif a little lesson with much
    gladness; for, look you, Mees Marsch, I haf this debt to pay,'
    and he pointed to my work. 'Yes, they say to one another, these
    so kind ladies, "he is a stupid old fellow; he will see not what
    we do; he will never opserve that his sock-heels go not in holes
    any more, he will think his buttons grow out new when they fall,
    and believe that strings make theirselves." Ah! but I haf an
    eye, and I see much. I haf a heart, and I feel the thanks for
    this. Come, a little lesson then and now, or no more good fairy
    works for me and mine.'

    "Of course I couldn't say anything after that, and as it really
    is a splendid opportunity, I made the bargain, and we began. I
    took four lessons, and then I stuck fast in a grammatical bog.
    The Professor was very patient with me, but it must have been
    torment to him, and now and then he'd look at me with such an
    expression of mild despair that it was a toss-up with me whether
    to laugh or cry. I tried both ways; and when it came to a sniff
    of utter mortification and woe, he just threw the grammar on to
    the floor, and marched out of the room. I felt myself disgraced
    and deserted forever, but didn't blame him a particle, and was
    scrambling my papers together, meaning to rush upstairs and
    shake myself hard, when in he came, as brisk and beaming as if
    I'd covered myself with glory.

    "'Now we shall try a new way. You and I will read these pleasant
    little Märchen together, and dig no more in that dry book, that
    goes in the corner for making us trouble.'

    "He spoke so kindly, and opened Hans Andersen's fairy tales so
    invitingly before me, that I was more ashamed than ever, and
    went at my lesson in a neck-or-nothing style that seemed to
    amuse him immensely. I forgot my bashfulness, and pegged away
    (no other word will express it) with all my might, tumbling over
    long words, pronouncing according to the inspiration of the
    minute, and doing my very best. When I finished reading my first
    page, and stopped for breath, he clapped his hands and cried
    out, in his hearty way, 'Das ist gute! Now we go well! My turn.
    I do him in German; gif me your ear.' And away he went, rumbling
    out the words with his strong voice, and a relish which was good
    to see as well as hear. Fortunately the story was the 'Constant
    Tin Soldier,' which is droll, you know, so I could laugh,--and I
    did,--though I didn't understand half he read, for I couldn't
    help it, he was so earnest, I so excited, and the whole thing so
    comical.

    "After that we got on better, and now I read my lessons pretty
    well; for this way of studying suits me, and I can see that the
    grammar gets tucked into the tales and poetry as one gives pills
    in jelly. I like it very much, and he doesn't seem tired of it
    yet,--which is very good of him, isn't it? I mean to give him
    something on Christmas, for I dare not offer money. Tell me
    something nice, Marmee.

    "I'm glad Laurie seems so happy and busy, that he has given up
    smoking, and lets his hair grow. You see Beth manages him better
    than I did. I'm not jealous, dear; do your best, only don't make
    a saint of him. I'm afraid I couldn't like him without a spice
    of human naughtiness. Read him bits of my letters. I haven't
    time to write much, and that will do just as well. Thank Heaven
    Beth continues so comfortable."

                                                           "JANUARY.

    "A Happy New Year to you all, my dearest family, which of course
    includes Mr. L. and a young man by the name of Teddy. I can't
    tell you how much I enjoyed your Christmas bundle, for I didn't
    get it till night, and had given up hoping. Your letter came in
    the morning, but you said nothing about a parcel, meaning it
    for a surprise; so I was disappointed, for I'd had a 'kind of a
    feeling' that you wouldn't forget me. I felt a little low in my
    mind, as I sat up in my room, after tea; and when the big,
    muddy, battered-looking bundle was brought to me, I just hugged
    it, and pranced. It was so _homey_ and refreshing, that I sat
    down on the floor and read and looked and ate and laughed and
    cried, in my usual absurd way. The things were just what I
    wanted, and all the better for being made instead of bought.
    Beth's new 'ink-bib' was capital; and Hannah's box of hard
    gingerbread will be a treasure. I'll be sure and wear the nice
    flannels you sent, Marmee, and read carefully the books father
    has marked. Thank you all, heaps and heaps!

 [Illustration: I sat down upon the floor and read and looked and ate]

    "Speaking of books reminds me that I'm getting rich in that
    line for, on New Year's Day, Mr. Bhaer gave me a fine
    Shakespeare. It is one he values much, and I've often admired
    it, set up in the place of honor, with his German Bible, Plato,
    Homer, and Milton; so you may imagine how I felt when he
    brought it down, without its cover, and showed me my name in
    it, 'from my friend Friedrich Bhaer.'

    "'You say often you wish a library: here I gif you one; for
    between these lids (he meant covers) is many books in one. Read
    him well, and he will help you much; for the study of character
    in this book will help you to read it in the world and paint it
    with your pen.'

    "I thanked him as well as I could, and talk now about 'my
    library,' as if I had a hundred books. I never knew how much
    there was in Shakespeare before; but then I never had a Bhaer to
    explain it to me. Now _don't_ laugh at his horrid name; it isn't
    pronounced either Bear or Beer, as people _will_ say it, but
    something between the two, as only Germans can give it. I'm glad
    you both like what I tell you about him, and hope you will know
    him some day. Mother would admire his warm heart, father his
    wise head. I admire both, and feel rich in my new 'friend
    Friedrich Bhaer.'

    "Not having much money, or knowing what he'd like, I got several
    little things, and put them about the room, where he would find
    them unexpectedly. They were useful, pretty, or funny,--a new
    standish on his table, a little vase for his flower,--he always
    has one, or a bit of green in a glass, to keep him fresh, he
    says,--and a holder for his blower, so that he needn't burn up
    what Amy calls 'mouchoirs.' I made it like those Beth
    invented,--a big butterfly with a fat body, and black and yellow
    wings, worsted feelers, and bead eyes. It took his fancy
    immensely, and he put it on his mantel-piece as an article of
    _vertu_; so it was rather a failure after all. Poor as he is, he
    didn't forget a servant or a child in the house; and not a soul
    here, from the French laundry-woman to Miss Norton, forgot him.
    I was so glad of that.

    "They got up a masquerade, and had a gay time New Year's Eve. I
    didn't mean to go down, having no dress; but at the last minute,
    Mrs. Kirke remembered some old brocades, and Miss Norton lent me
    lace and feathers; so I dressed up as Mrs. Malaprop, and sailed
    in with a mask on. No one knew me, for I disguised my voice, and
    no one dreamed of the silent, haughty Miss March (for they think
    I am very stiff and cool, most of them; and so I am to
    whipper-snappers) could dance and dress, and burst out into a
    'nice derangement of epitaphs, like an allegory on the banks of
    the Nile.' I enjoyed it very much; and when we unmasked, it was
    fun to see them stare at me. I heard one of the young men tell
    another that he knew I'd been an actress; in fact, he thought he
    remembered seeing me at one of the minor theatres. Meg will
    relish that joke. Mr. Bhaer was Nick Bottom, and Tina was
    Titania,--a perfect little fairy in his arms. To see them dance
    was 'quite a landscape,' to use a Teddyism.

    "I had a very happy New Year, after all; and when I thought it
    over in my room, I felt as if I was getting on a little in spite
    of my many failures; for I'm cheerful all the time now, work
    with a will, and take more interest in other people than I used
    to, which is satisfactory. Bless you all! Ever your loving

                                                                JO."

                       [Illustration: Tail-piece]

           [Illustration: In the presence of three gentlemen]

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

completion: This chapter is made up of entries in Jo's journal while she is living in New York and working at Mrs. Kirke's boardinghouse as a tutor and seamstress. The journal is a collection of letters addressed to Marmee and Beth, not a secret diary. Jo says that when she left home, she was sad at the beginning of the journey, but quickly got distracted by a woman with four fussy kids. Every time they started to cry, she would "accidentally" drop gingerbread treats for them to snatch up. Mrs. Kirke welcomed Jo warmly and gave her a snug, sunny room with a stove in it. The girls that Jo is tutoring, Kitty and Minnie, are a little spoiled but mostly nice. As Jo went down to the dining room that first evening, she saw a gentleman take a heavy load of coal from one of the maids and carry it up for her. Jo was pleased by this chivalry and asked Mrs. Kirke who it was, and Mrs. Kirke said it was an expatriate German professor, very poor but kind. He teaches to support himself and his orphan nephews, who had an American father. Jo says that she's interested to know more about this professor, but she assures her mother that it's not improper - after all, the professor is almost 40. A few days later, Jo is having trouble with her girls, who have way too much energy. She makes them do some gymnastics to tire them out. In the afternoon, the maid takes them for a walk and she sits alone sewing. Jo hears someone come into the parlor singing in German. She peeps through the curtain on the door and sees Professor Bhaer arranging his books. She notices that he's not handsome, but has good teeth, and his clothes need mending. There is a knock at the door, and a little girl called Tina comes in. She asks the professor for a hug and then she starts to study her lesson. She bends very seriously over a book. Jo wonders if she is the professor's daughter. Two young women come in and Professor Bhaer gives them a German lesson. Jo goes back to her sewing and tries not to eavesdrop, but she hears him getting more and more frustrated with their stupidity. Finally, the women leave. Jo peeps in again and sees Professor Bhaer tired out and Tina asleep on the sofa. That evening, Jo eats dinner at the table with the rest of the boarding house guests. She's curious about them, but not especially interested in any of them as friends, except one woman. The professor is at the other end of the table carrying on two conversations and eating hungrily. As she goes back to her room, Jo hears two of the young men talking about her and criticizing her lack of style. At first she's angry, and then she decides she doesn't care. A few days later, Jo records that she spent the day quietly teaching, sewing, and writing. Jo discovers that Tina is the daughter of a French woman who does the ironing. Tina, Kittie, and Minnie all love Professor Bhaer, who is very good with children. Jo gets to know the one woman who interested her, Miss Norton. She's a wealthy, educated woman who takes a fancy to Jo. Jo gets introduced to Mr. Bhaer by Minnie, and they immediately hit it off. Later that day, she accidentally knocks his door open with her umbrella, to reveal him in his dressing gown darning a sock. She feels bad that he has to mend his own clothes. A few days later, Jo records that Miss Norton has offered to take her to lectures and concerts, and she has gratefully accepted. Jo also records that one day she came into the nursery to find Prof. Bhaer playing with Tina, Kittie, and Minnie, pretending to be an elephant while one of them rides on his back and another leads him on a rope. The girls explain to Jo that on Saturday their mom lets them play however they want. Professor Bhaer promises to be quiet if they bother her, but she enjoys their rambunctious playtime. When the girls are sick of games, Professor Bhaer tells them fairy tales. Jo signs off, asking her mother to forward Amy's letters as soon as the rest of the family has read them. Jo's next letter is specifically to Beth. She says that the girls she is tutoring are coming along fine, although she prefers Tina and Professor Bhaer's nephews, Franz and Emil. Jo confides to Beth that she and the professor are very good friends now and that she has started taking German lessons from him. One day, Jo comes across Mrs. Kirke going through Mr. Bhaer's den, trying to tidy up his books and find his handkerchiefs. Jo goes in to help her and they find three of the handkerchiefs - one over a bird cage, one covered in ink, and one burned because it has been used to hold something near the fire. Mrs. Kirke laughs and says that he uses them for all sorts of things. She says that she agreed to do Mr. Bhaer's washing and mending, but he often forgets to give her his laundry and she forgets to look for it, so it doesn't work out very well. Jo asks Mrs. Kirke to let her do Professor Bhaer's mending. She says it can be in return for borrowing books from him. Jo hoped that Mr. Bhaer wouldn't find out she was doing his mending, but he caught her darning a sock and eavesdropping on one of his lessons, trying to learn German by overhearing him. He offered to give her the lessons she wanted in return for all the little secret tasks she's been doing - sewing buttons back on, putting heels in his socks, and so on. At first Jo didn't do very well learning German, and worried that she was irritating the Professor when he threw the book on the floor and marched out of the room. However, a moment later he came back into the room with an edition of Hans Christian Andersen fairy tales in German. With this more interesting material, Jo has started to do much better. She enjoys the stories and learns the grammar as she goes. Jo ends her letter by saying she's glad to hear Laurie is doing well and thinks Beth must manage him better. The next entry/letter is for the whole family, including the Laurences. Jo wishes everyone Happy New Year and thanks them for their Christmas presents. On New Year's Day, Mr. Bhaer gave Jo a nice edition of the collected works of Shakespeare. He said it was like a library in one book and told her to study the characters. She writes that she's appreciating Shakespeare a lot more now that Mr. Bhaer is there to explain it to her. Jo wasn't sure what to get Mr. Bhaer, so she got him several presents and hid them around his room. The boarding house had a masquerade party on New Year's Eve. Jo wasn't going to go because she didn't have anything to wear, but then Mrs. Kirke and Miss Norton found some old brocade and things and dressed her up. She had a great time acting while masked, and nobody recognized her at the party until she took her mask off! Jo ends by wishing her family love and saying that she is happy working hard.