prompt:
Chapter: XXIII. AUNT MARCH SETTLES THE QUESTION.

            [Illustration: Popping in her head now and then]

Like bees swarming after their queen, mother and daughters hovered about
Mr. March the next day, neglecting everything to look at, wait upon, and
listen to the new invalid, who was in a fair way to be killed by
kindness. As he sat propped up in a big chair by Beth's sofa, with the
other three close by, and Hannah popping in her head now and then, "to
peek at the dear man," nothing seemed needed to complete their
happiness. But something _was_ needed, and the elder ones felt it,
though none confessed the fact. Mr. and Mrs. March looked at one another
with an anxious expression, as their eyes followed Meg. Jo had sudden
fits of sobriety, and was seen to shake her fist at Mr. Brooke's
umbrella, which had been left in the hall; Meg was absent-minded, shy,
and silent, started when the bell rang, and colored when John's name was
mentioned; Amy said "Every one seemed waiting for something, and
couldn't settle down, which was queer, since father was safe at home,"
and Beth innocently wondered why their neighbors didn't run over as
usual.

 [Illustration: "He sat in the big chair by Beth's sofa with the other
                      three close by."--Page 277.]

Laurie went by in the afternoon, and, seeing Meg at the window, seemed
suddenly possessed with a melodramatic fit, for he fell down upon one
knee in the snow, beat his breast, tore his hair, and clasped his hands
imploringly, as if begging some boon; and when Meg told him to behave
himself and go away, he wrung imaginary tears out of his handkerchief,
and staggered round the corner as if in utter despair.

"What does the goose mean?" said Meg, laughing, and trying to look
unconscious.

"He's showing you how your John will go on by and by. Touching, isn't
it?" answered Jo scornfully.

"Don't say _my John_, it isn't proper or true;" but Meg's voice lingered
over the words as if they sounded pleasant to her. "Please don't plague
me, Jo; I've told you I don't care _much_ about him, and there isn't to
be anything said, but we are all to be friendly, and go on as before."

"We can't, for something _has_ been said, and Laurie's mischief has
spoilt you for me. I see it, and so does mother; you are not like your
old self a bit, and seem ever so far away from me. I don't mean to
plague you, and will bear it like a man, but I do wish it was all
settled. I hate to wait; so if you mean ever to do it, make haste and
have it over quickly," said Jo pettishly.

"_I_ can't say or do anything till he speaks, and he won't, because
father said I was too young," began Meg, bending over her work, with a
queer little smile, which suggested that she did not quite agree with
her father on that point.

"If he did speak, you wouldn't know what to say, but would cry or blush,
or let him have his own way, instead of giving a good, decided, No."

"I'm not so silly and weak as you think. I know just what I should say,
for I've planned it all, so I needn't be taken unawares; there's no
knowing what may happen, and I wished to be prepared."

Jo couldn't help smiling at the important air which Meg had
unconsciously assumed, and which was as becoming as the pretty color
varying in her cheeks.

"Would you mind telling me what you'd say?" asked Jo more respectfully.

"Not at all; you are sixteen now, quite old enough to be my confidant,
and my experience will be useful to you by and by, perhaps, in your own
affairs of this sort."

"Don't mean to have any; it's fun to watch other people philander, but I
should feel like a fool doing it myself," said Jo, looking alarmed at
the thought.

"I think not, if you liked any one very much, and he liked you." Meg
spoke as if to herself, and glanced out at the lane, where she had often
seen lovers walking together in the summer twilight.

"I thought you were going to tell your speech to that man," said Jo,
rudely shortening her sister's little reverie.

"Oh, I should merely say, quite calmly and decidedly, 'Thank you, Mr.
Brooke, you are very kind, but I agree with father that I am too young
to enter into any engagement at present; so please say no more, but let
us be friends as we were.'"

"Hum! that's stiff and cool enough. I don't believe you'll ever say it,
and I know he won't be satisfied if you do. If he goes on like the
rejected lovers in books, you'll give in, rather than hurt his
feelings."

"No, I won't. I shall tell him I've made up my mind, and shall walk out
of the room with dignity."

Meg rose as she spoke, and was just going to rehearse the dignified
exit, when a step in the hall made her fly into her seat, and begin to
sew as if her life depended on finishing that particular seam in a given
time. Jo smothered a laugh at the sudden change, and, when some one gave
a modest tap, opened the door with a grim aspect, which was anything but
hospitable.

"Good afternoon. I came to get my umbrella,--that is, to see how your
father finds himself to-day," said Mr. Brooke, getting a trifle confused
as his eye went from one tell-tale face to the other.

"It's very well, he's in the rack, I'll get him, and tell it you are
here," and having jumbled her father and the umbrella well together in
her reply, Jo slipped out of the room to give Meg a chance to make her
speech and air her dignity. But the instant she vanished, Meg began to
sidle towards the door, murmuring,--

"Mother will like to see you. Pray sit down, I'll call her."

"Don't go; are you afraid of me, Margaret?" and Mr. Brooke looked so
hurt that Meg thought she must have done something very rude. She
blushed up to the little curls on her forehead, for he had never called
her Margaret before, and she was surprised to find how natural and sweet
it seemed to hear him say it. Anxious to appear friendly and at her
ease, she put out her hand with a confiding gesture, and said
gratefully,--

"How can I be afraid when you have been so kind to father? I only wish I
could thank you for it."

                 [Illustration: Shall I tell you how?]

"Shall I tell you how?" asked Mr. Brooke, holding the small hand fast in
both his own, and looking down at Meg with so much love in the brown
eyes, that her heart began to flutter, and she both longed to run away
and to stop and listen.

"Oh no, please don't--I'd rather not," she said, trying to withdraw her
hand, and looking frightened in spite of her denial.

"I won't trouble you, I only want to know if you care for me a little,
Meg. I love you so much, dear," added Mr. Brooke tenderly.

This was the moment for the calm, proper speech, but Meg didn't make it;
she forgot every word of it, hung her head, and answered, "I don't
know," so softly, that John had to stoop down to catch the foolish
little reply.

He seemed to think it was worth the trouble, for he smiled to himself as
if quite satisfied, pressed the plump hand gratefully, and said, in his
most persuasive tone, "Will you try and find out? I want to know _so_
much; for I can't go to work with any heart until I learn whether I am
to have my reward in the end or not."

"I'm too young," faltered Meg, wondering why she was so fluttered, yet
rather enjoying it.

"I'll wait; and in the meantime, you could be learning to like me. Would
it be a very hard lesson, dear?"

"Not if I chose to learn it, but--"

"Please choose to learn, Meg. I love to teach, and this is easier than
German," broke in John, getting possession of the other hand, so that
she had no way of hiding her face, as he bent to look into it.

His tone was properly beseeching; but, stealing a shy look at him, Meg
saw that his eyes were merry as well as tender, and that he wore the
satisfied smile of one who had no doubt of his success. This nettled
her; Annie Moffat's foolish lessons in coquetry came into her mind, and
the love of power, which sleeps in the bosoms of the best of little
women, woke up all of a sudden and took possession of her. She felt
excited and strange, and, not knowing what else to do, followed a
capricious impulse, and, withdrawing her hands, said petulantly, "I
_don't_ choose. Please go away and let me be!"

Poor Mr. Brooke looked as if his lovely castle in the air was tumbling
about his ears, for he had never seen Meg in such a mood before, and it
rather bewildered him.

"Do you really mean that?" he asked anxiously, following her as she
walked away.

"Yes, I do; I don't want to be worried about such things. Father says I
needn't; it's too soon and I'd rather not."

"Mayn't I hope you'll change your mind by and by? I'll wait, and say
nothing till you have had more time. Don't play with me, Meg. I didn't
think that of you."

"Don't think of me at all. I'd rather you wouldn't," said Meg, taking a
naughty satisfaction in trying her lover's patience and her own power.

He was grave and pale now, and looked decidedly more like the novel
heroes whom she admired; but he neither slapped his forehead nor tramped
about the room, as they did; he just stood looking at her so wistfully,
so tenderly, that she found her heart relenting in spite of her. What
would have happened next I cannot say, if Aunt March had not come
hobbling in at this interesting minute.

The old lady couldn't resist her longing to see her nephew; for she had
met Laurie as she took her airing, and, hearing of Mr. March's arrival,
drove straight out to see him. The family were all busy in the back part
of the house, and she had made her way quietly in, hoping to surprise
them. She did surprise two of them so much that Meg started as if she
had seen a ghost, and Mr. Brooke vanished into the study.

"Bless me, what's all this?" cried the old lady, with a rap of her cane,
as she glanced from the pale young gentleman to the scarlet young lady.

               [Illustration: Bless me, what's all this?]

"It's father's friend. I'm _so_ surprised to see you!" stammered Meg,
feeling that she was in for a lecture now.

"That's evident," returned Aunt March, sitting down. "But what is
father's friend saying to make you look like a peony? There's mischief
going on, and I insist upon knowing what it is," with another rap.

"We were merely talking. Mr. Brooke came for his umbrella," began Meg,
wishing that Mr. Brooke and the umbrella were safely out of the house.

"Brooke? That boy's tutor? Ah! I understand now. I know all about it. Jo
blundered into a wrong message in one of your father's letters, and I
made her tell me. You haven't gone and accepted him, child?" cried Aunt
March, looking scandalized.

"Hush! he'll hear. Sha'n't I call mother?" said Meg, much troubled.

"Not yet. I've something to say to you, and I must free my mind at once.
Tell me, do you mean to marry this Cook? If you do, not one penny of my
money ever goes to you. Remember that, and be a sensible girl," said the
old lady impressively.

Now Aunt March possessed in perfection the art of rousing the spirit of
opposition in the gentlest people, and enjoyed doing it. The best of us
have a spice of perversity in us, especially when we are young and in
love. If Aunt March had begged Meg to accept John Brooke, she would
probably have declared she couldn't think of it; but as she was
peremptorily ordered _not_ to like him, she immediately made up her mind
that she would. Inclination as well as perversity made the decision
easy, and, being already much excited, Meg opposed the old lady with
unusual spirit.

"I shall marry whom I please, Aunt March, and you can leave your money
to any one you like," she said, nodding her head with a resolute air.

"Highty tighty! Is that the way you take my advice, miss? You'll be
sorry for it, by and by, when you've tried love in a cottage, and found
it a failure."

"It can't be a worse one than some people find in big houses," retorted
Meg.

Aunt March put on her glasses and took a look at the girl, for she did
not know her in this new mood. Meg hardly knew herself, she felt so
brave and independent,--so glad to defend John, and assert her right to
love him, if she liked. Aunt March saw that she had begun wrong, and,
after a little pause, made a fresh start, saying, as mildly as she
could, "Now, Meg, my dear, be reasonable, and take my advice. I mean it
kindly, and don't want you to spoil your whole life by making a mistake
at the beginning. You ought to marry well, and help your family; it's
your duty to make a rich match, and it ought to be impressed upon you."

"Father and mother don't think so; they like John, though he _is_ poor."

"Your parents, my dear, have no more worldly wisdom than two babies."

"I'm glad of it," cried Meg stoutly.

Aunt March took no notice, but went on with her lecture. "This Rook is
poor, and hasn't got any rich relations, has he?"

"No; but he has many warm friends."

"You can't live on friends; try it, and see how cool they'll grow. He
hasn't any business, has he?"

"Not yet; Mr. Laurence is going to help him."

"That won't last long. James Laurence is a crotchety old fellow, and not
to be depended on. So you intend to marry a man without money, position,
or business, and go on working harder than you do now, when you might be
comfortable all your days by minding me and doing better? I thought you
had more sense, Meg."

"I couldn't do better if I waited half my life! John is good and wise;
he's got heaps of talent; he's willing to work, and sure to get on, he's
so energetic and brave. Every one likes and respects him, and I'm proud
to think he cares for me, though I'm so poor and young and silly," said
Meg, looking prettier than ever in her earnestness.

"He knows _you_ have got rich relations, child; that's the secret of his
liking, I suspect."

"Aunt March, how dare you say such a thing? John is above such meanness,
and I won't listen to you a minute if you talk so," cried Meg
indignantly, forgetting everything but the injustice of the old lady's
suspicions. "My John wouldn't marry for money, anymore than I would. We
are willing to work, and we mean to wait. I'm not afraid of being poor,
for I've been happy so far, and I know I shall be with him, because he
loves me, and I--"

Meg stopped there, remembering all of a sudden that she hadn't made up
her mind; that she had told "her John" to go away, and that he might be
overhearing her inconsistent remarks.

Aunt March was very angry, for she had set her heart on having her
pretty niece make a fine match, and something in the girl's happy young
face made the lonely old woman feel both sad and sour.

"Well, I wash my hands of the whole affair! You are a wilful child, and
you've lost more than you know by this piece of folly. No, I won't stop;
I'm disappointed in you, and haven't spirits to see your father now.
Don't expect anything from me when you are married; your Mr. Book's
friends must take care of you. I'm done with you forever."

And, slamming the door in Meg's face, Aunt March drove off in high
dudgeon. She seemed to take all the girl's courage with her; for, when
left alone, Meg stood a moment, undecided whether to laugh or cry.
Before she could make up her mind, she was taken possession of by Mr.
Brooke, who said, all in one breath, "I couldn't help hearing, Meg.
Thank you for defending me, and Aunt March for proving that you _do_
care for me a little bit."

"I didn't know how much, till she abused you," began Meg.

"And I needn't go away, but may stay and be happy, may I, dear?"

Here was another fine chance to make the crushing speech and the stately
exit, but Meg never thought of doing either, and disgraced herself
forever in Jo's eyes by meekly whispering, "Yes, John," and hiding her
face on Mr. Brooke's waistcoat.

Fifteen minutes after Aunt March's departure, Jo came softly down
stairs, paused an instant at the parlor door, and, hearing no sound
within, nodded and smiled, with a satisfied expression, saying to
herself, "She has sent him away as we planned, and that affair is
settled. I'll go and hear the fun, and have a good laugh over it."

But poor Jo never got her laugh, for she was transfixed upon the
threshold by a spectacle which held her there, staring with her mouth
nearly as wide open as her eyes. Going in to exult over a fallen enemy,
and to praise a strong-minded sister for the banishment of an
objectionable lover, it certainly _was_ a shock to behold the aforesaid
enemy serenely sitting on the sofa, with the strong-minded sister
enthroned upon his knee, and wearing an expression of the most abject
submission. Jo gave a sort of gasp, as if a cold shower-bath had
suddenly fallen upon her,--for such an unexpected turning of the tables
actually took her breath away. At the odd sound, the lovers turned and
saw her. Meg jumped up, looking both proud and shy; but "that man," as
Jo called him, actually laughed, and said coolly, as he kissed the
astonished new-comer, "Sister Jo, congratulate us!"

That was adding insult to injury,--it was altogether too much,--and,
making some wild demonstration with her hands, Jo vanished without a
word. Rushing upstairs, she startled the invalids by exclaiming
tragically, as she burst into the room, "Oh, _do_ somebody go down
quick; John Brooke is acting dreadfully, and Meg likes it!"

Mr. and Mrs. March left the room with speed; and, casting herself upon
the bed, Jo cried and scolded tempestuously as she told the awful news
to Beth and Amy. The little girls, however, considered it a most
agreeable and interesting event, and Jo got little comfort from them; so
she went up to her refuge in the garret, and confided her troubles to
the rats.

Nobody ever knew what went on in the parlor that afternoon; but a great
deal of talking was done, and quiet Mr. Brooke astonished his friends by
the eloquence and spirit with which he pleaded his suit, told his plans,
and persuaded them to arrange everything just as he wanted it.

The tea-bell rang before he had finished describing the paradise which
he meant to earn for Meg, and he proudly took her in to supper, both
looking so happy that Jo hadn't the heart to be jealous or dismal. Amy
was very much impressed by John's devotion and Meg's dignity. Beth
beamed at them from a distance, while Mr. and Mrs. March surveyed the
young couple with such tender satisfaction that it was perfectly evident
Aunt March was right in calling them as "unworldly as a pair of babies."
No one ate much, but every one looked very happy, and the old room
seemed to brighten up amazingly when the first romance of the family
began there.

"You can't say nothing pleasant ever happens now, can you, Meg?" said
Amy, trying to decide how she would group the lovers in the sketch she
was planning to take.

"No, I'm sure I can't. How much has happened since I said that! It seems
a year ago," answered Meg, who was in a blissful dream, lifted far above
such common things as bread and butter.

"The joys come close upon the sorrows this time, and I rather think the
changes have begun," said Mrs. March. "In most families there comes, now
and then, a year full of events; this has been such an one, but it ends
well, after all."

"Hope the next will end better," muttered Jo, who found it very hard to
see Meg absorbed in a stranger before her face; for Jo loved a few
persons very dearly, and dreaded to have their affection lost or
lessened in any way.

"I hope the third year from this _will_ end better; I mean it shall, if
I live to work out my plans," said Mr. Brooke, smiling at Meg, as if
everything had become possible to him now.

"Doesn't it seem very long to wait?" asked Amy, who was in a hurry for
the wedding.

"I've got so much to learn before I shall be ready, it seems a short
time to me," answered Meg, with a sweet gravity in her face, never seen
there before.

"You have only to wait; _I_ am to do the work," said John, beginning his
labors by picking up Meg's napkin, with an expression which caused Jo to
shake her head, and then say to herself, with an air of relief, as the
front door banged, "Here comes Laurie. Now we shall have a little
sensible conversation."

But Jo was mistaken; for Laurie came prancing in, overflowing with
spirits, bearing a great bridal-looking bouquet for "Mrs. John Brooke,"
and evidently laboring under the delusion that the whole affair had been
brought about by his excellent management.

                  [Illustration: For Mrs. John Brooke]

"I knew Brooke would have it all his own way, he always does; for when
he makes up his mind to accomplish anything, it's done, though the sky
falls," said Laurie, when he had presented his offering and his
congratulations.

"Much obliged for that recommendation. I take it as a good omen for the
future, and invite you to my wedding on the spot," answered Mr. Brooke,
who felt at peace with all mankind, even his mischievous pupil.

"I'll come if I'm at the ends of the earth; for the sight of Jo's face
alone, on that occasion, would be worth a long journey. You don't look
festive, ma'am; what's the matter?" asked Laurie, following her into a
corner of the parlor, whither all had adjourned to greet Mr. Laurence.

"I don't approve of the match, but I've made up my mind to bear it, and
shall not say a word against it," said Jo solemnly. "You can't know how
hard it is for me to give up Meg," she continued, with a little quiver
in her voice.

"You don't give her up. You only go halves," said Laurie consolingly.

"It never can be the same again. I've lost my dearest friend," sighed
Jo.

"You've got me, anyhow. I'm not good for much, I know; but I'll stand
by you, Jo, all the days of my life; upon my word I will!" and Laurie
meant what he said.

"I know you will, and I'm ever so much obliged; you are always a great
comfort to me, Teddy," returned Jo, gratefully shaking hands.

"Well, now, don't be dismal, there's a good fellow. It's all right, you
see. Meg is happy; Brooke will fly round and get settled immediately;
grandpa will attend to him, and it will be very jolly to see Meg in her
own little house. We'll have capital times after she is gone, for I
shall be through college before long, and then we'll go abroad, or some
nice trip or other. Wouldn't that console you?"

"I rather think it would; but there's no knowing what may happen in
three years," said Jo thoughtfully.

"That's true. Don't you wish you could take a look forward, and see
where we shall all be then? I do," returned Laurie.

"I think not, for I might see something sad; and every one looks so
happy now, I don't believe they could be much improved," and Jo's eyes
went slowly round the room, brightening as they looked, for the prospect
was a pleasant one.

Father and mother sat together, quietly re-living the first chapter of
the romance which for them began some twenty years ago. Amy was drawing
the lovers, who sat apart in a beautiful world of their own, the light
of which touched their faces with a grace the little artist could not
copy. Beth lay on her sofa, talking cheerily with her old friend, who
held her little hand as if he felt that it possessed the power to lead
him along the peaceful way she walked. Jo lounged in her favorite low
seat, with the grave, quiet look which best became her; and Laurie,
leaning on the back of her chair, his chin on a level with her curly
head, smiled with his friendliest aspect, and nodded at her in the long
glass which reflected them both.

                   *       *       *       *       *

So grouped, the curtain falls upon Meg, Jo, Beth, and Amy. Whether it
ever rises again, depends upon the reception given to the first act of
the domestic drama called "LITTLE WOMEN."

                [Illustration: Home of the Little Women]

                            The Second Part

                     [Illustration: The Dove Cote]

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

completion: The March girls, their mother, and Hannah look after Mr. March, whom they are very excited to have at home. However, everyone seems to be waiting for something else to happen. In the afternoon, Laurie comes by. When he sees Meg, he goes down on one knee in front of her and pretends to have a lover's fit, beating his breast and tearing out his hair. Meg doesn't understand what he means, but Jo explains that he's imitating the way John Brooke is going to behave soon - when he proposes! Meg tells Jo that she doesn't care about John Brooke...much. Jo says that the whole family can tell they are in love; she's disgusted with the whole thing. Meg tells Jo to stop talking about it; she can't do anything herself anyway, since the man has to propose. It is the 1800s, after all. Jo asks Meg how she would respond if John Brooke asked her to marry him. Meg says that she would refuse, saying that she was too young to get engaged. Jo is very pleased by this and makes Meg promise that she'll turn John down. Just then, John Brooke comes by to get his umbrella, which he accidentally left at the Marches' house. The two sisters look startled and guilty when he comes in. He gets confused and asks to speak to Mr. March. Jo leaves so that Meg can turn John down in private. Meg asks John to sit down and says that her mother would like to see him. John asks Meg if she's afraid of him. She says she couldn't be because he has been so kind to their father. She gives John her hand and says that she wishes she knew how to repay him. John holds Meg's hand firmly and tells her that he knows a great way for her to repay his kindness. Meg becomes flustered and bashful. John asks whether she cares for him. Instead of making the speech that she discussed with Jo, Meg says that she doesn't know. John woos Meg and tells her how much he cares for her. She says that she's too young, and John says he's willing to wait. As they are talking, Meg looks up and catches sight of John's expression. He looks very sure of himself, and Meg is a little offended by his confidence. She starts to behave more coyly and tells him to go away and leave her alone. John is surprised and hurt, and asks whether she really means it. She says that she does. John asks Meg not to play with him, and says he's willing to wait while she sorts out her feelings, for a long time if necessary. She tells him not to think about her. John and Meg stand there looking at each other for a moment. Meg starts to feel bad about how she is treating John. Suddenly, Aunt March comes in and surprises them. John Brooke tactfully ducks into the next room while Aunt March demands to know what's going on. Meg tells Aunt March that the visitor is John Brooke, a friend of her father. Aunt March recognizes the name; she knows that John Brooke is Laurie's tutor and that he is interested in Meg. Aunt March tells Meg that, if she marries John Brooke, she will disinherit her. Meg is offended and tells Aunt March that she will marry whomever she likes. Aunt March tells Meg that it is her duty to marry a rich man and help her family. Aunt March also suggests that John Brooke probably wants to marry her because he's heard that Aunt March is wealthy and thinks Meg, as the oldest niece, might inherit a fortune. Now Meg is really offended, and she tells Aunt March that neither she nor John would ever marry for money. She says that they're not afraid to work hard and they intend to wait and have a long engagement. Meg gets carried away describing how great John Brooke is, how hard he works, how smart he is, and how likely he is to succeed. Apparently she does like him quite a bit! Aunt March is angry and says that she washes her hands of the affair. She tells Meg that she's not going to inherit anything from her and storms out. John comes back into the room. He tells Meg that he couldn't help overhearing what she said, and he's delighted to find out that she does care for him. Meg says she didn't know how much she cared until Aunt March started insulting him. A little bit later, it is quiet in the room. Jo, assuming that John has left after being turned down by Meg, comes into the room to gloat with her sister. But what she sees is Meg sitting on John's knee! John asks Jo to congratulate them. Jo runs out of the room and tells her parents that John is acting "dreadfully." Mr. and Mrs. March go downstairs to find out what's happening. They have a private conversation with John and Meg in the parlor, in which John convinces them that he has responsible plans for making a home for himself and Meg. John stays and has tea with the family. Everyone is excited except Jo. Over the meal, the family talk about how much has happened to them this year. John says that he and Meg are going to work and wait for three years before they get married. Well, he'll do most of the working, and she'll do most of the waiting, but you get the idea. Laurie comes in with a large bouquet for Meg and congratulates the couple. Jo assumes that Laurie, like herself, will feel un-romantic about the whole thing, but Laurie's actually very excited and says that he knew John would win Meg over. Old Mr. Laurence comes in and the family greets him. Laurie asks Jo why she looks upset. She says she's not happy about the match, but she's trying to be polite about it. She feels like she's lost her best friend. Laurie tells Jo that he will always be there for her. She says that's comforting. Laurie wonders where they will all be in three years' time. As the chapter ends, the entire extended family is gathered together. Mr. and Mrs. March are reliving their past. Amy is sketching John and Meg, who are sitting together. Beth is lying on the sofa, talking with old Mr. Laurence. Jo is sitting and talking to Laurie, who is leaning on the back of her chair. It's pure domestic bliss!


prompt:
Chapter: XXIV. GOSSIP.

In order that we may start afresh, and go to Meg's wedding with free
minds, it will be well to begin with a little gossip about the Marches.
And here let me premise, that if any of the elders think there is too
much "lovering" in the story, as I fear they may (I'm not afraid the
young folks will make that objection), I can only say with Mrs. March,
"What _can_ you expect when I have four gay girls in the house, and a
dashing young neighbor over the way?"

The three years that have passed have brought but few changes to the
quiet family. The war is over, and Mr. March safely at home, busy with
his books and the small parish which found in him a minister by nature
as by grace,--a quiet, studious man, rich in the wisdom that is better
than learning, the charity which calls all mankind "brother," the piety
that blossoms into character, making it august and lovely.

These attributes, in spite of poverty and the strict integrity which
shut him out from the more worldly successes, attracted to him many
admirable persons, as naturally as sweet herbs draw bees, and as
naturally he gave them the honey into which fifty years of hard
experience had distilled no bitter drop. Earnest young men found the
gray-headed scholar as young at heart as they; thoughtful or troubled
women instinctively brought their doubts and sorrows to him, sure of
finding the gentlest sympathy, the wisest counsel; sinners told their
sins to the pure-hearted old man, and were both rebuked and saved;
gifted men found a companion in him; ambitious men caught glimpses of
nobler ambitions than their own; and even worldlings confessed that his
beliefs were beautiful and true, although "they wouldn't pay."

To outsiders, the five energetic women seemed to rule the house, and so
they did in many things; but the quiet scholar, sitting among his books,
was still the head of the family, the household conscience, anchor, and
comforter; for to him the busy, anxious women always turned in troublous
times, finding him, in the truest sense of those sacred words, husband
and father.

The girls gave their hearts into their mother's keeping, their souls
into their father's; and to both parents, who lived and labored so
faithfully for them, they gave a love that grew with their growth, and
bound them tenderly together by the sweetest tie which blesses life and
outlives death.

Mrs. March is as brisk and cheery, though rather grayer, than when we
saw her last, and just now so absorbed in Meg's affairs that the
hospitals and homes, still full of wounded "boys" and soldiers' widows,
decidedly miss the motherly missionary's visits.

John Brooke did his duty manfully for a year, got wounded, was sent
home, and not allowed to return. He received no stars or bars, but he
deserved them, for he cheerfully risked all he had; and life and love
are very precious when both are in full bloom. Perfectly resigned to his
discharge, he devoted himself to getting well, preparing for business,
and earning a home for Meg. With the good sense and sturdy independence
that characterized him, he refused Mr. Laurence's more generous offers,
and accepted the place of book-keeper feeling better satisfied to begin
with an honestly-earned salary, than by running any risks with borrowed
money.

Meg had spent the time in working as well as waiting, growing womanly in
character, wise in housewifely arts, and prettier than ever; for love is
a great beautifier. She had her girlish ambitions and hopes, and felt
some disappointment at the humble way in which the new life must begin.
Ned Moffat had just married Sallie Gardiner, and Meg couldn't help
contrasting their fine house and carriage, many gifts, and splendid
outfit, with her own, and secretly wishing she could have the same. But
somehow envy and discontent soon vanished when she thought of all the
patient love and labor John had put into the little home awaiting her;
and when they sat together in the twilight, talking over their small
plans, the future always grew so beautiful and bright that she forgot
Sallie's splendor, and felt herself the richest, happiest girl in
Christendom.

Jo never went back to Aunt March, for the old lady took such a fancy to
Amy that she bribed her with the offer of drawing lessons from one of
the best teachers going; and for the sake of this advantage, Amy would
have served a far harder mistress. So she gave her mornings to duty, her
afternoons to pleasure, and prospered finely. Jo, meantime, devoted
herself to literature and Beth, who remained delicate long after the
fever was a thing of the past. Not an invalid exactly, but never again
the rosy, healthy creature she had been; yet always hopeful, happy, and
serene, busy with the quiet duties she loved, every one's friend, and an
angel in the house, long before those who loved her most had learned to
know it.

As long as "The Spread Eagle" paid her a dollar a column for her
"rubbish," as she called it, Jo felt herself a woman of means, and spun
her little romances diligently. But great plans fermented in her busy
brain and ambitious mind, and the old tin kitchen in the garret held a
slowly increasing pile of blotted manuscript, which was one day to place
the name of March upon the roll of fame.

Laurie, having dutifully gone to college to please his grandfather, was
now getting through it in the easiest possible manner to please
himself. A universal favorite, thanks to money, manners, much talent,
and the kindest heart that ever got its owner into scrapes by trying to
get other people out of them, he stood in great danger of being spoilt,
and probably would have been, like many another promising boy, if he had
not possessed a talisman against evil in the memory of the kind old man
who was bound up in his success, the motherly friend who watched over
him as if he were her son, and last, but not least by any means, the
knowledge that four innocent girls loved, admired, and believed in him
with all their hearts.

Being only "a glorious human boy," of course he frolicked and flirted,
grew dandified, aquatic, sentimental, or gymnastic, as college fashions
ordained; hazed and was hazed, talked slang, and more than once came
perilously near suspension and expulsion. But as high spirits and the
love of fun were the causes of these pranks, he always managed to save
himself by frank confession, honorable atonement, or the irresistible
power of persuasion which he possessed in perfection. In fact, he rather
prided himself on his narrow escapes, and liked to thrill the girls with
graphic accounts of his triumphs over wrathful tutors, dignified
professors, and vanquished enemies. The "men of my class" were heroes in
the eyes of the girls, who never wearied of the exploits of "our
fellows," and were frequently allowed to bask in the smiles of these
great creatures, when Laurie brought them home with him.

Amy especially enjoyed this high honor, and became quite a belle among
them; for her ladyship early felt and learned to use the gift of
fascination with which she was endowed. Meg was too much absorbed in her
private and particular John to care for any other lords of creation, and
Beth too shy to do more than peep at them, and wonder how Amy dared to
order them about so; but Jo felt quite in her element, and found it very
difficult to refrain from imitating the gentlemanly attitudes, phrases,
and feats, which seemed more natural to her than the decorums prescribed
for young ladies. They all liked Jo immensely, but never fell in love
with her, though very few escaped without paying the tribute of a
sentimental sigh or two at Amy's shrine. And speaking of sentiment
brings us very naturally to the "Dove-cote."

That was the name of the little brown house which Mr. Brooke had
prepared for Meg's first home. Laurie had christened it, saying it was
highly appropriate to the gentle lovers, who "went on together like a
pair of turtle-doves, with first a bill and then a coo." It was a tiny
house, with a little garden behind, and a lawn about as big as a
pocket-handkerchief in front. Here Meg meant to have a fountain,
shrubbery, and a profusion of lovely flowers; though just at present,
the fountain was represented by a weather-beaten urn, very like a
dilapidated slop-bowl; the shrubbery consisted of several young larches,
undecided whether to live or die; and the profusion of flowers was
merely hinted by regiments of sticks, to show where seeds were planted.
But inside, it was altogether charming, and the happy bride saw no fault
from garret to cellar. To be sure, the hall was so narrow, it was
fortunate that they had no piano, for one never could have been got in
whole; the dining-room was so small that six people were a tight fit;
and the kitchen stairs seemed built for the express purpose of
precipitating both servants and china pell-mell into the coal-bin. But
once get used to these slight blemishes, and nothing could be more
complete, for good sense and good taste had presided over the
furnishing, and the result was highly satisfactory. There were no
marble-topped tables, long mirrors, or lace curtains in the little
parlor, but simple furniture, plenty of books, a fine picture or two, a
stand of flowers in the bay-window, and, scattered all about, the pretty
gifts which came from friendly hands, and were the fairer for the loving
messages they brought.

I don't think the Parian Psyche Laurie gave lost any of its beauty
because John put up the bracket it stood upon; that any upholsterer
could have draped the plain muslin curtains more gracefully than Amy's
artistic hand; or that any store-room was ever better provided with good
wishes, merry words, and happy hopes, than that in which Jo and her
mother put away Meg's few boxes, barrels, and bundles; and I am morally
certain that the spandy-new kitchen never _could_ have looked so cosey
and neat if Hannah had not arranged every pot and pan a dozen times
over, and laid the fire all ready for lighting, the minute "Mis. Brooke
came home." I also doubt if any young matron ever began life with so
rich a supply of dusters, holders, and piece-bags; for Beth made enough
to last till the silver wedding came round, and invented three
different kinds of dishcloths for the express service of the bridal
china.

People who hire all these things done for them never know what they
lose; for the homeliest tasks get beautified if loving hands do them,
and Meg found so many proofs of this, that everything in her small nest,
from the kitchen roller to the silver vase on her parlor table, was
eloquent of home love and tender forethought.

What happy times they had planning together, what solemn shopping
excursions; what funny mistakes they made, and what shouts of laughter
arose over Laurie's ridiculous bargains. In his love of jokes, this
young gentleman, though nearly through college, was as much of a boy as
ever. His last whim had been to bring with him, on his weekly visits,
some new, useful, and ingenious article for the young housekeeper. Now a
bag of remarkable clothes-pins; next, a wonderful nutmeg-grater, which
fell to pieces at the first trial; a knife-cleaner that spoilt all the
knives; or a sweeper that picked the nap neatly off the carpet, and left
the dirt; labor-saving soap that took the skin off one's hands;
infallible cements which stuck firmly to nothing but the fingers of the
deluded buyer; and every kind of tin-ware, from a toy savings-bank for
odd pennies, to a wonderful boiler which would wash articles in its own
steam, with every prospect of exploding in the process.

In vain Meg begged him to stop. John laughed at him, and Jo called him
"Mr. Toodles." He was possessed with a mania for patronizing Yankee
ingenuity, and seeing his friends fitly furnished forth. So each week
beheld some fresh absurdity.

Everything was done at last, even to Amy's arranging different colored
soaps to match the different colored rooms, and Beth's setting the table
for the first meal.

"Are you satisfied? Does it seem like home, and do you feel as if you
should be happy here?" asked Mrs. March, as she and her daughter went
through the new kingdom, arm-in-arm; for just then they seemed to cling
together more tenderly than ever.

"Yes, mother, perfectly satisfied, thanks to you all, and _so_ happy
that I can't talk about it," answered Meg, with a look that was better
than words.

"If she only had a servant or two it would be all right," said Amy,
coming out of the parlor, where she had been trying to decide whether
the bronze Mercury looked best on the whatnot or the mantle-piece.

"Mother and I have talked that over, and I have made up my mind to try
her way first. There will be so little to do, that, with Lotty to run my
errands and help me here and there, I shall only have enough work to
keep me from getting lazy or homesick," answered Meg tranquilly.

"Sallie Moffat has four," began Amy.

"If Meg had four the house wouldn't hold them, and master and missis
would have to camp in the garden," broke in Jo, who, enveloped in a big
blue pinafore, was giving the last polish to the door-handles.

"Sallie isn't a poor man's wife, and many maids are in keeping with her
fine establishment. Meg and John begin humbly, but I have a feeling that
there will be quite as much happiness in the little house as in the big
one. It's a great mistake for young girls like Meg to leave themselves
nothing to do but dress, give orders, and gossip. When I was first
married, I used to long for my new clothes to wear out or get torn, so
that I might have the pleasure of mending them; for I got heartily sick
of doing fancy work and tending my pocket handkerchief."

"Why didn't you go into the kitchen and make messes, as Sallie says she
does, to amuse herself, though they never turn out well, and the
servants laugh at her," said Meg.

"I did, after a while; not to 'mess,' but to learn of Hannah how things
should be done, that my servants need _not_ laugh at me. It was play
then; but there came a time when I was truly grateful that I not only
possessed the will but the power to cook wholesome food for my little
girls, and help myself when I could no longer afford to hire help. You
begin at the other end, Meg, dear; but the lessons you learn now will be
of use to you by and by, when John is a richer man, for the mistress of
a house, however splendid, should know how work ought to be done, if she
wishes to be well and honestly served."

"Yes, mother, I'm sure of that," said Meg, listening respectfully to the
little lecture; for the best of women will hold forth upon the
all-absorbing subject of housekeeping. "Do you know I like this room
most of all in my baby-house," added Meg, a minute after, as they went
upstairs, and she looked into her well-stored linen-closet.

Beth was there, laying the snowy piles smoothly on the shelves, and
exulting over the goodly array. All three laughed as Meg spoke; for that
linen-closet was a joke. You see, having said that if Meg married "that
Brooke" she shouldn't have a cent of her money, Aunt March was rather in
a quandary, when time had appeased her wrath and made her repent her
vow. She never broke her word, and was much exercised in her mind how to
get round it, and at last devised a plan whereby she could satisfy
herself. Mrs. Carrol, Florence's mamma, was ordered to buy, have made,
and marked, a generous supply of house and table linen, and send it as
_her_ present, all of which was faithfully done; but the secret leaked
out, and was greatly enjoyed by the family; for Aunt March tried to look
utterly unconscious, and insisted that she could give nothing but the
old-fashioned pearls, long promised to the first bride.

"That's a housewifely taste which I am glad to see. I had a young friend
who set up housekeeping with six sheets, but she had finger bowls for
company, and that satisfied her," said Mrs. March, patting the damask
table-cloths, with a truly feminine appreciation of their fineness.

"I haven't a single finger-bowl, but this is a 'set out' that will last
me all my days, Hannah says;" and Meg looked quite contented, as well
she might.

"Toodles is coming," cried Jo from below; and they all went down to meet
Laurie, whose weekly visit was an important event in their quiet lives.

A tall, broad-shouldered young fellow, with a cropped head, a felt-basin
of a hat, and a fly-away coat, came tramping down the road at a great
pace, walked over the low fence without stopping to open the gate,
straight up to Mrs. March, with both hands out, and a hearty--

"Here I am, mother! Yes, it's all right."

The last words were in answer to the look the elder lady gave him; a
kindly questioning look, which the handsome eyes met so frankly that the
little ceremony closed, as usual, with a motherly kiss.

"For Mrs. John Brooke, with the maker's congratulations and compliments.
Bless you, Beth! What a refreshing spectacle you are, Jo. Amy, you are
getting altogether too handsome for a single lady."

As Laurie spoke, he delivered a brown paper parcel to Meg, pulled Beth's
hair-ribbon, stared at Jo's big pinafore, and fell into an attitude of
mock rapture before Amy, then shook hands all round, and every one began
to talk.

"Where is John?" asked Meg anxiously.

"Stopped to get the license for to-morrow, ma'am."

"Which side won the last match, Teddy?" inquired Jo, who persisted in
feeling an interest in manly sports, despite her nineteen years.

"Ours, of course. Wish you'd been there to see."

"How is the lovely Miss Randal?" asked Amy, with a significant smile.

"More cruel than ever; don't you see how I'm pining away?" and Laurie
gave his broad chest a sounding slap and heaved a melodramatic sigh.

"What's the last joke? Undo the bundle and see, Meg," said Beth, eying
the knobby parcel with curiosity.

"It's a useful thing to have in the house in case of fire or thieves,"
observed Laurie, as a watchman's rattle appeared, amid the laughter of
the girls.

               [Illustration: A small watchman's rattle]

"Any time when John is away, and you get frightened, Mrs. Meg, just
swing that out of the front window, and it will rouse the neighborhood
in a jiffy. Nice thing, isn't it?" and Laurie gave them a sample of its
powers that made them cover up their ears.

"There's gratitude for you! and speaking of gratitude reminds me to
mention that you may thank Hannah for saving your wedding-cake from
destruction. I saw it going into your house as I came by, and if she
hadn't defended it manfully I'd have had a pick at it, for it looked
like a remarkably plummy one."

"I wonder if you will ever grow up, Laurie," said Meg, in a matronly
tone.

"I'm doing my best, ma'am, but can't get much higher, I'm afraid, as six
feet is about all men can do in these degenerate days," responded the
young gentleman, whose head was about level with the little chandelier.
"I suppose it would be profanation to eat anything in this spick and
span new bower, so, as I'm tremendously hungry, I propose an
adjournment," he added presently.

"Mother and I are going to wait for John. There are some last things to
settle," said Meg, bustling away.

"Beth and I are going over to Kitty Bryant's to get more flowers for
to-morrow," added Amy, tying a picturesque hat over her picturesque
curls, and enjoying the effect as much as anybody.

"Come, Jo, don't desert a fellow. I'm in such a state of exhaustion I
can't get home without help. Don't take off your apron, whatever you do;
it's peculiarly becoming," said Laurie, as Jo bestowed his especial
aversion in her capacious pocket, and offered him her arm to support his
feeble steps.

"Now, Teddy, I want to talk seriously to you about to-morrow," began Jo,
as they strolled away together. "You _must_ promise to behave well, and
not cut up any pranks, and spoil our plans."

"Not a prank."

"And don't say funny things when we ought to be sober."

"I never do; you are the one for that."

"And I implore you not to look at me during the ceremony; I shall
certainly laugh if you do."

"You won't see me; you'll be crying so hard that the thick fog round you
will obscure the prospect."

"I never cry unless for some great affliction."

"Such as fellows going to college, hey?" cut in Laurie, with a
suggestive laugh.

"Don't be a peacock. I only moaned a trifle to keep the girls company."

"Exactly. I say, Jo, how is grandpa this week; pretty amiable?"

"Very; why, have you got into a scrape, and want to know how he'll take
it?" asked Jo rather sharply.

"Now, Jo, do you think I'd look your mother in the face, and say 'All
right,' if it wasn't?" and Laurie stopped short, with an injured air.

"No, I don't."

"Then don't go and be suspicious; I only want some money," said Laurie,
walking on again, appeased by her hearty tone.

"You spend a great deal, Teddy."

"Bless you, _I_ don't spend it; it spends itself, somehow, and is gone
before I know it."

"You are so generous and kind-hearted that you let people borrow, and
can't say 'No' to any one. We heard about Henshaw, and all you did for
him. If you always spent money in that way, no one would blame you,"
said Jo warmly.

"Oh, he made a mountain out of a mole-hill. You wouldn't have me let
that fine fellow work himself to death, just for the want of a little
help, when he is worth a dozen of us lazy chaps, would you?"

"Of course not; but I don't see the use of your having seventeen
waistcoats, endless neckties, and a new hat every time you come home. I
thought you'd got over the dandy period; but every now and then it
breaks out in a new spot. Just now it's the fashion to be hideous,--to
make your head look like a scrubbing-brush, wear a strait-jacket,
orange gloves, and clumping, square-toed boots. If it was cheap
ugliness, I'd say nothing; but it costs as much as the other, and I
don't get any satisfaction out of it."

Laurie threw back his head, and laughed so heartily at this attack, that
the felt-basin fell off, and Jo walked on it, which insult only afforded
him an opportunity for expatiating on the advantages of a
rough-and-ready costume, as he folded up the maltreated hat, and stuffed
it into his pocket.

"Don't lecture any more, there's a good soul! I have enough all through
the week, and like to enjoy myself when I come home. I'll get myself up
regardless of expense, to-morrow, and be a satisfaction to my friends."

"I'll leave you in peace if you'll _only_ let your hair grow. I'm not
aristocratic, but I do object to being seen with a person who looks like
a young prize-fighter," observed Jo severely.

"This unassuming style promotes study; that's why we adopt it," returned
Laurie, who certainly could not be accused of vanity, having voluntarily
sacrificed a handsome curly crop to the demand for
quarter-of-an-inch-long stubble.

"By the way, Jo, I think that little Parker is really getting desperate
about Amy. He talks of her constantly, writes poetry, and moons about in
a most suspicious manner. He'd better nip his little passion in the bud,
hadn't he?" added Laurie, in a confidential, elder-brotherly tone, after
a minute's silence.

"Of course he had; we don't want any more marrying in this family for
years to come. Mercy on us, what _are_ the children thinking of?" and Jo
looked as much scandalized as if Amy and little Parker were not yet in
their teens.

"It's a fast age, and I don't know what we are coming to, ma'am. You are
a mere infant, but you'll go next, Jo, and we'll be left lamenting,"
said Laurie, shaking his head over the degeneracy of the times.

"Don't be alarmed; I'm not one of the agreeable sort. Nobody will want
me, and it's a mercy, for there should always be one old maid in a
family."

"You won't give any one a chance," said Laurie, with a sidelong glance,
and a little more color than before in his sunburnt face. "You won't
show the soft side of your character; and if a fellow gets a peep at it
by accident, and can't help showing that he likes it, you treat him as
Mrs. Gummidge did her sweetheart,--throw cold water over him,--and get
so thorny no one dares touch or look at you."

"I don't like that sort of thing; I'm too busy to be worried with
nonsense, and I think it's dreadful to break up families so. Now don't
say any more about it; Meg's wedding has turned all our heads, and we
talk of nothing but lovers and such absurdities. I don't wish to get
cross, so let's change the subject;" and Jo looked quite ready to fling
cold water on the slightest provocation.

Whatever his feelings might have been, Laurie found a vent for them in a
long low whistle, and the fearful prediction, as they parted at the
gate, "Mark my words, Jo, you'll go next."

                       [Illustration: Tail-piece]

                   [Illustration: The First Wedding]

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

completion: Three years have passed since the last chapter. The Civil War is over and Mr. March is at home permanently. Mr. March spends his time quietly studying his books, but he's also a resource for everyone in the community. People come to him to confess their problems and ask for guidance. Even though his wife and four daughters are the most active, he's still the wise head of the household. Mrs. March is a little older and spends most of her time helping Meg, who is getting ready for her wedding. John Brooke has served in the army for a year, gotten wounded, and been sent home as an invalid. He works hard as a bookkeeper for Mr. Laurence and starts building a metaphorical nest egg to support Meg. Meg has spent the three years learning to be an even better housewife. She's a little jealous of Sallie Gardiner and Ned Moffat, who have gotten married and are busy being rich and idle together, but she's also very excited to move into a little cottage with John. Amy replaces Jo as Aunt March's companion. Jo spends her time writing for newspapers and taking care of Beth, who remains sickly. Laurie is in college, where he has a lot of friends and doesn't work all that hard. He lives a crazy college-kid life, but his friendship with the March family keeps him honest and moral. Laurie often brings his college friends home. Amy and Jo like them a lot - Amy because she can be the only pretty girl in a big group of guys who fawn over her, and Jo because she feels like one of the guys. John Brooke has prepared a little cottage as his first home with Meg. The family calls it "The Dovecote" - it was pretty typical for people to name their houses in the nineteenth century. The Dovecote is a tiny little house with a very small yard, and John and the March girls do most of the interior decorating themselves, but it's even more beautiful because it has a personal touch. Laurie tries to help by buying the latest labor-saving household inventions. This is a source of much comic relief and everyone laughs at the weird stuff he finds. Finally, the entire house is furnished and everything is arranged perfectly. Mrs. March and Meg walk through it one last time to make sure that Meg is happy with it. Amy wishes that Meg could have a servant - most upper- and middle-class families did at this time in history because there was so much housework to do. Meg says that she and her mother have talked about it and she's going to try keeping house on her own first. They both think that staying idle is morally wrong. Mrs. March says that when she was first married, she used to wish her clothes would tear so that she could do something useful and mend them. Finally she started working in the kitchen and had Hannah teach her how to cook. Then, when the Marches lost their money, she was able to start doing more household tasks. Even if Meg and John get rich, she says, it's good to know how things are done. The girls take a look at Meg's linen closet, which is stocked full of lots of fancy table cloths, sheets, napkins, and so on. They all laugh about it, because the linen is all from Aunt March, but she made Aunt Carrol give the gift so that she wouldn't look like she had gone back on her promise that she wouldn't give Meg any money if she married John Brooke. Laurie arrives at the cottage. He gives Meg a package and greets each of the girls in his own way. He says that John has stopped to get the marriage license. Meg unwraps the package and finds a watchman's rattle - a loud noisemaker to call help if you get frightened or attacked. Laurie swings it around to make it rattle and everyone laughs and has to cover their ears. Laurie wants everyone to leave the cottage and go eat something. Meg and Mrs. March are staying there to wait for John and Amy and Beth are going to see Amy's friend Kitty to get flowers for the wedding. Jo and Laurie walk home together on their own. Jo makes Laurie promise to behave himself at the wedding and not pull any practical jokes or say anything rude. Laurie just laughs at her worries. Jo can tell that something is bothering Laurie and asks what it is. Laurie says he needs to ask his grandfather for money because he runs out. Jo says that he is too generous to his friends - apparently he gave a bunch of money to a poor friend who was struggling in college. Jo says that Laurie spends too much money on fancy clothes. Laurie laughs and tells her to stop lecturing. Laurie tells Jo that one of his friends is in love with Amy. Jo says that they don't want any more marrying in the family anytime soon. Laurie says Jo will be next, and she says that she's going to be an old maid. Laurie says Jo won't give anyone the chance to love her. Jo says that she's too busy for romantic nonsense and doesn't like the way weddings break up families. Laurie repeats to himself that Jo will be next to get married.


prompt:
Chapter: XXV. THE FIRST WEDDING.

The June roses over the porch were awake bright and early on that
morning, rejoicing with all their hearts in the cloudless sunshine, like
friendly little neighbors, as they were. Quite flushed with excitement
were their ruddy faces, as they swung in the wind, whispering to one
another what they had seen; for some peeped in at the dining-room
windows, where the feast was spread, some climbed up to nod and smile at
the sisters as they dressed the bride, others waved a welcome to those
who came and went on various errands in garden, porch, and hall, and
all, from the rosiest full-blown flower to the palest baby-bud, offered
their tribute of beauty and fragrance to the gentle mistress who had
loved and tended them so long.

Meg looked very like a rose herself; for all that was best and sweetest
in heart and soul seemed to bloom into her face that day, making it fair
and tender, with a charm more beautiful than beauty. Neither silk, lace,
nor orange-flowers would she have. "I don't want to look strange or
fixed up to-day," she said. "I don't want a fashionable wedding, but
only those about me whom I love, and to them I wish to look and be my
familiar self."

So she made her wedding gown herself, sewing into it the tender hopes
and innocent romances of a girlish heart. Her sisters braided up her
pretty hair, and the only ornaments she wore were the lilies of the
valley, which "her John" liked best of all the flowers that grew.

"You _do_ look just like our own dear Meg, only so very sweet and lovely
that I should hug you if it wouldn't crumple your dress," cried Amy,
surveying her with delight, when all was done.

"Then I am satisfied. But please hug and kiss me, every one, and don't
mind my dress; I want a great many crumples of this sort put into it
to-day;" and Meg opened her arms to her sisters, who clung about her
with April faces for a minute, feeling that the new love had not changed
the old.

"Now I'm going to tie John's cravat for him, and then to stay a few
minutes with father quietly in the study;" and Meg ran down to perform
these little ceremonies, and then to follow her mother wherever she
went, conscious that, in spite of the smiles on the motherly face, there
was a secret sorrow hid in the motherly heart at the flight of the first
bird from the nest.

As the younger girls stand together, giving the last touches to their
simple toilet, it may be a good time to tell of a few changes which
three years have wrought in their appearance; for all are looking their
best just now.

Jo's angles are much softened; she has learned to carry herself with
ease, if not grace. The curly crop has lengthened into a thick coil,
more becoming to the small head atop of the tall figure. There is a
fresh color in her brown cheeks, a soft shine in her eyes, and only
gentle words fall from her sharp tongue to-day.

Beth has grown slender, pale, and more quiet than ever; the beautiful,
kind eyes are larger, and in them lies an expression that saddens one,
although it is not sad itself. It is the shadow of pain which touches
the young face with such pathetic patience; but Beth seldom complains,
and always speaks hopefully of "being better soon."

Amy is with truth considered "the flower of the family;" for at sixteen
she has the air and bearing of a full-grown woman--not beautiful, but
possessed of that indescribable charm called grace. One saw it in the
lines of her figure, the make and motion of her hands, the flow of her
dress, the droop of her hair,--unconscious, yet harmonious, and as
attractive to many as beauty itself. Amy's nose still afflicted her, for
it never _would_ grow Grecian; so did her mouth, being too wide, and
having a decided chin. These offending features gave character to her
whole face, but she never could see it, and consoled herself with her
wonderfully fair complexion, keen blue eyes, and curls, more golden and
abundant than ever.

All three wore suits of thin silver gray (their best gowns for the
summer), with blush-roses in hair and bosom; and all three looked just
what they were,--fresh-faced, happy-hearted girls, pausing a moment in
their busy lives to read with wistful eyes the sweetest chapter in the
romance of womanhood.

There were to be no ceremonious performances, everything was to be as
natural and homelike as possible; so when Aunt March arrived, she was
scandalized to see the bride come running to welcome and lead her in, to
find the bridegroom fastening up a garland that had fallen down, and to
catch a glimpse of the paternal minister marching upstairs with a grave
countenance, and a wine-bottle under each arm.

"Upon my word, here's a state of things!" cried the old lady, taking the
seat of honor prepared for her, and settling the folds of her lavender
_moire_ with a great rustle. "You oughtn't to be seen till the last
minute, child."

"I'm not a show, aunty, and no one is coming to stare at me, to
criticise my dress, or count the cost of my luncheon. I'm too happy to
care what any one says or thinks, and I'm going to have my little
wedding just as I like it. John, dear, here's your hammer;" and away
went Meg to help "that man" in his highly improper employment.

Mr. Brooke didn't even say "Thank you," but as he stooped for the
unromantic tool, he kissed his little bride behind the folding-door,
with a look that made Aunt March whisk out her pocket-handkerchief, with
a sudden dew in her sharp old eyes.

A crash, a cry, and a laugh from Laurie, accompanied by the indecorous
exclamation, "Jupiter Ammon! Jo's upset the cake again!" caused a
momentary flurry, which was hardly over when a flock of cousins arrived,
and "the party came in," as Beth used to say when a child.

"Don't let that young giant come near me; he worries me worse than
mosquitoes," whispered the old lady to Amy, as the rooms filled, and
Laurie's black head towered above the rest.

"He has promised to be very good to-day, and he _can_ be perfectly
elegant if he likes," returned Amy, gliding away to warn Hercules to
beware of the dragon, which warning caused him to haunt the old lady
with a devotion that nearly distracted her.

There was no bridal procession, but a sudden silence fell upon the room
as Mr. March and the young pair took their places under the green arch.
Mother and sisters gathered close, as if loath to give Meg up; the
fatherly voice broke more than once, which only seemed to make the
service more beautiful and solemn; the bridegroom's hand trembled
visibly, and no one heard his replies; but Meg looked straight up in her
husband's eyes, and said, "I will!" with such tender trust in her own
face and voice that her mother's heart rejoiced, and Aunt March sniffed
audibly.

Jo did _not_ cry, though she was very near it once, and was only saved
from a demonstration by the consciousness that Laurie was staring
fixedly at her, with a comical mixture of merriment and emotion in his
wicked black eyes. Beth kept her face hidden on her mother's shoulder,
but Amy stood like a graceful statue, with a most becoming ray of
sunshine touching her white forehead and the flower in her hair.

It wasn't at all the thing, I'm afraid, but the minute she was fairly
married, Meg cried, "The first kiss for Marmee!" and, turning, gave it
with her heart on her lips. During the next fifteen minutes she looked
more like a rose than ever, for every one availed themselves of their
privileges to the fullest extent, from Mr. Laurence to old Hannah, who,
adorned with a head-dress fearfully and wonderfully made, fell upon her
in the hall, crying, with a sob and a chuckle, "Bless you, deary, a
hundred times! The cake ain't hurt a mite, and everything looks lovely."

Everybody cleared up after that, and said something brilliant, or tried
to, which did just as well, for laughter is ready when hearts are light.
There was no display of gifts, for they were already in the little
house, nor was there an elaborate breakfast, but a plentiful lunch of
cake and fruit, dressed with flowers. Mr. Laurence and Aunt March
shrugged and smiled at one another when water, lemonade, and coffee were
found to be the only sorts of nectar which the three Hebes carried
round. No one said anything, however, till Laurie, who insisted on
serving the bride, appeared before her, with a loaded salver in his hand
and a puzzled expression on his face.

"Has Jo smashed all the bottles by accident?" he whispered, "or am I
merely laboring under a delusion that I saw some lying about loose this
morning?"

"No; your grandfather kindly offered us his best, and Aunt March
actually sent some, but father put away a little for Beth, and
despatched the rest to the Soldiers' Home. You know he thinks that wine
should be used only in illness, and mother says that neither she nor her
daughters will ever offer it to any young man under her roof."

Meg spoke seriously, and expected to see Laurie frown or laugh; but he
did neither, for after a quick look at her, he said, in his impetuous
way, "I like that! for I've seen enough harm done to wish other women
would think as you do."

"You are not made wise by experience, I hope?" and there was an anxious
accent in Meg's voice.

"No; I give you my word for it. Don't think too well of me, either; this
is not one of my temptations. Being brought up where wine is as common
as water, and almost as harmless, I don't care for it; but when a pretty
girl offers it, one doesn't like to refuse, you see."

"But you will, for the sake of others, if not for your own. Come,
Laurie, promise, and give me one more reason to call this the happiest
day of my life."

A demand so sudden and so serious made the young man hesitate a moment,
for ridicule is often harder to bear than self-denial. Meg knew that if
he gave the promise he would keep it at all costs; and, feeling her
power, used it as a woman may for her friend's good. She did not speak,
but she looked up at him with a face made very eloquent by happiness,
and a smile which said, "No one can refuse me anything to-day." Laurie
certainly could not; and, with an answering smile, he gave her his hand,
saying heartily, "I promise, Mrs. Brooke!"

"I thank you, very, very much."

"And I drink 'long life to your resolution,' Teddy," cried Jo, baptizing
him with a splash of lemonade, as she waved her glass, and beamed
approvingly upon him.

So the toast was drunk, the pledge made, and loyally kept, in spite of
many temptations; for, with instinctive wisdom, the girls had seized a
happy moment to do their friend a service, for which he thanked them all
his life.

After lunch, people strolled about, by twos and threes, through house
and garden, enjoying the sunshine without and within. Meg and John
happened to be standing together in the middle of the grass-plot, when
Laurie was seized with an inspiration which put the finishing touch to
this unfashionable wedding.

"All the married people take hands and dance round the new-made husband
and wife, as the Germans do, while we bachelors and spinsters prance in
couples outside!" cried Laurie, promenading down the path with Amy, with
such infectious spirit and skill that every one else followed their
example without a murmur. Mr. and Mrs. March, Aunt and Uncle Carrol,
began it; others rapidly joined in; even Sallie Moffat, after a moment's
hesitation, threw her train over her arm, and whisked Ned into the ring.
But the crowning joke was Mr. Laurence and Aunt March; for when the
stately old gentleman _chasséed_ solemnly up to the old lady, she just
tucked her cane under her arm, and hopped briskly away to join hands
with the rest, and dance about the bridal pair, while the young folks
pervaded the garden, like butterflies on a midsummer day.

Want of breath brought the impromptu ball to a close, and then people
began to go.

"I wish you well, my dear, I heartily wish you well; but I think you'll
be sorry for it," said Aunt March to Meg, adding to the bridegroom, as
he led her to the carriage, "You've got a treasure, young man, see that
you deserve it."

"That is the prettiest wedding I've been to for an age, Ned, and I don't
see why, for there wasn't a bit of style about it," observed Mrs. Moffat
to her husband, as they drove away.

"Laurie, my lad, if you ever want to indulge in this sort of thing, get
one of those little girls to help you, and I shall be perfectly
satisfied," said Mr. Laurence, settling himself in his easy-chair to
rest, after the excitement of the morning.

"I'll do my best to gratify you, sir," was Laurie's unusually dutiful
reply, as he carefully unpinned the posy Jo had put in his button-hole.

The little house was not far away, and the only bridal journey Meg had
was the quiet walk with John, from the old home to the new. When she
came down, looking like a pretty Quakeress in her dove-colored suit and
straw bonnet tied with white, they all gathered about her to say
"good-by," as tenderly as if she had been going to make the grand tour.

"Don't feel that I am separated from you, Marmee dear, or that I love
you any the less for loving John so much," she said, clinging to her
mother, with full eyes, for a moment. "I shall come every day, father,
and expect to keep my old place in all your hearts, though I _am_
married. Beth is going to be with me a great deal, and the other girls
will drop in now and then to laugh at my housekeeping struggles. Thank
you all for my happy wedding-day. Good-by, good-by!"

They stood watching her, with faces full of love and hope and tender
pride, as she walked away, leaning on her husband's arm, with her hands
full of flowers, and the June sunshine brightening her happy face,--and
so Meg's married life began.

                   [Illustration: Artistic Attempts]

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

completion: On the morning of Meg's wedding day, the roses are blooming and the weather is beautiful. Meg also looks like a blooming rose, but she's not wearing a fancy dress. She says that she wants to be herself at her wedding, so she makes a simple gown by hand and wears flowers in her hair. Meg hugs each of her sisters one last time and then goes to tie John's cravat for him. The narrator pauses to describe how different the girls look after three years have passed. Jo is less clumsy, more gentle and feminine, and her hair is long again. Beth is thin and pale and even quieter than before. Amy is sixteen and extremely graceful and lovely, the prettiest of the four sisters. They're all wearing silver-gray dresses for the wedding with blue roses in their hair. The whole wedding is very casual - they're putting up the decorations themselves and even the bride and bridegroom are doing chores. Aunt March is scandalized and thinks that Meg ought to hide so that nobody sees her until the wedding starts. They don't even have a bridal procession - everyone gets quiet for a moment as Mr. March, who is performing the ceremony, and Meg and John take their places under an arch of greenery. The vows are simple and everyone is very emotional. As soon as Meg is married, she declares that she's going to give her first kiss to her mother, and does. Then everyone is giving everyone else hugs and kisses. After the ceremony, everyone has a simple meal. There's no alcohol - Laurie is confused, because he knows his grandfather sent over some bottles of wine, but Meg reminds him that her family thinks wine should only be used medicinally. Laurie says that he actually agrees, because he's seen a lot of harm done by excessive drinking. Meg asks him to promise never to drink again, and he does. After eating, everyone strolls around and chats. Laurie comes up with an idea to end the ceremony and arranges everyone in a folksy German wedding dance. After the dance, people begin to go home. Aunt March leaves, prophesying doom and reminding John that his new wife is a treasure. Sallie and Ned Moffat are surprised by how nice the wedding was, even though it wasn't stylish or fancy. Mr. Laurence hints to Laurie that he should marry one of the March girls, and Laurie agrees. Meg and John make the short journey to their new cottage nearby and say goodbye to her parents. Meg promises to remain close to her parents and sisters.