prompt:
Chapter: XXXVII. NEW IMPRESSIONS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What happens then, a ball?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                  [Illustration: Here are your flowers]

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

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

"Please don't."

"I thought you liked that sort of thing?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Do you care to dance?"

"One usually does at a ball."

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

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

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

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

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

was all the satisfaction she got, however.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Illusion."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                     [Illustration: Demi and Daisy]

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

completion: Meanwhile, Laurie is walking along the Promenade des Anglais in a fashionable neighborhood of Nice, France. It's sunny and beautiful and many different nationalities are represented by the people strolling along. Laurie's appearance is also very multi-national - he looks Italian, is dressed like an Englishman, and has the attitude of an American. All the women who see him find him amazingly attractive. Laurie, however, is uninterested in all the women around him. He seems to be looking for a blonde woman dressed in blue. Finally, Laurie sees the woman he's looking for driving a little carriage and hurries toward her. It's Amy, who is excited to see him. Laurie tells Amy that he's come to spend Christmas with her the way he promised. She invites him to join her in the carriage and they drive on through the street, chatting. Amy invites Laurie to a Christmas party at her hotel and he accepts. Laurie asks where they are going, and Amy says that she needs to pick up her letters and then go to Castle Hill to look at the view and see the peacocks. Amy asks Laurie what he's been doing. Laurie explains that his grandfather is staying in Paris for the winter, while Laurie himself comes and goes. Amy has to pause the carriage while a procession of priests and nuns goes by. As she waits, she looks at Laurie. He is more handsome and grown-up, but also moody and strange. Amy asks Laurie, in French, what he's thinking. He replies with a flattering compliment, which Amy doesn't like - it's very different from how he used to behave. Amy picks up her letters and then lets Laurie drive the carriage while she reads them. She learns that Beth is very sick. Amy tells Laurie that she thinks about going home to see her sister, but her family advise her to stay in Europe since it's her only chance to do so. Laurie agrees with them. Amy shows Laurie a sketch of Jo. Laurie smiles and puts it in his pocket. Amy says that she's having a very merry Christmas - visiting with Laurie, getting letters, and going to a party in the evening. Amy and Laurie arrive at Castle Hill and stand in the ruins of an old fort feeding the peacocks. Laurie thinks about how much Amy has changed - all for the better. She's just as graceful as ever but more mature now. Amy and Laurie stroll around and look at the view. Amy mentions that Jo would love to see it. Laurie doesn't say much about that. Amy tries to find out what Laurie has been doing with his time. He's apparently been wandering around Europe, mostly in Greece. Amy and Laurie drive home. Laurie says hi to Amy's Aunt Carrol and goes home, promising to come back for the party and dance. While Laurie is gone, Amy does a lot of primping to get herself ready for the dance that evening. She doesn't have much money, so she's not wearing much jewelry and she doesn't have a fancy hairstyle, but she uses flowers and cheap fabrics to make herself look pretty amazing. Once Amy is ready, she just has to wait for Laurie to come pick her up. At first she poses on a sofa and arranges her dress around her, but then she decides not to be so fake and simply stands waiting for Laurie. Laurie comes in and is stunned by Amy's beauty. Amy's also pleased with his appearance and excited to enter the ballroom on his arm. Laurie gives Amy a bouquet in a fancy silver holder. It's basically a wrist corsage - the holder is a bracelet that snaps on her wrist. If this scene reminds you of a prom date, you've got the right idea. Laurie flatters and compliments Amy. She tells him not to be so fake - she prefers it when he's natural and blunt. He's relieved that she wants him to be himself. Laurie and Amy go to the party in the hotel's ballroom. There are a lot of people there - the Americans staying at the hotel have invited everyone they know, including some royalty and nobles. As Amy enters on Laurie's arm, she's aware that they are one of the best-looking couples in the room and pities some of the other girls there. Amy really likes dancing and is good at it, so when the first song starts to play she's impatient to begin. Laurie asks her to dance, but in a careless and insulting way. She rebukes him, and he asks more politely. Amy gives Laurie the first dance. She wants to dance fast and passionately, but the song is slow and decorous and she has to be dignified instead. Laurie goes to dance with Amy's cousin Flo without asking about Amy's later dances. Amy lets other men, including a young Polish count, fill her card, so that when Laurie comes back she doesn't have a free dance. Laurie doesn't seem to care that Amy's not available to dance with him. She ignores him for a while, but as he sits on the sidelines he begins to notice that she's beautiful and a good dancer. The dance is cheerful and full of the Christmas spirit. Amy and the Polish count finish a dance and he has to leave. She comes back to Laurie, who gets her something to eat. While Amy eats and rests, Laurie comments on how terrific she looks. He can't figure out what she did to make herself look so much more elegant than the other women in the room. Amy explains about learning to use some cheap fabric and flowers to make herself look good. Then she worries that telling him this was in bad taste, but Laurie likes her honesty and simplicity. He fills up her dance card with his own name for the rest of the night.


prompt:
Chapter: XXXVIII. ON THE SHELF.

In France the young girls have a dull time of it till they are married,
when "_Vive la liberté_" becomes their motto. In America, as every one
knows, girls early sign the declaration of independence, and enjoy their
freedom with republican zest; but the young matrons usually abdicate
with the first heir to the throne, and go into a seclusion almost as
close as a French nunnery, though by no means as quiet. Whether they
like it or not, they are virtually put upon the shelf as soon as the
wedding excitement is over, and most of them might exclaim, as did a
very pretty woman the other day, "I'm as handsome as ever, but no one
takes any notice of me because I'm married."

Not being a belle or even a fashionable lady, Meg did not experience
this affliction till her babies were a year old, for in her little world
primitive customs prevailed, and she found herself more admired and
beloved than ever.

As she was a womanly little woman, the maternal instinct was very
strong, and she was entirely absorbed in her children, to the utter
exclusion of everything and everybody else. Day and night she brooded
over them with tireless devotion and anxiety, leaving John to the tender
mercies of the help, for an Irish lady now presided over the kitchen
department. Being a domestic man, John decidedly missed the wifely
attentions he had been accustomed to receive; but, as he adored his
babies, he cheerfully relinquished his comfort for a time, supposing,
with masculine ignorance, that peace would soon be restored. But three
months passed, and there was no return of repose; Meg looked worn and
nervous, the babies absorbed every minute of her time, the house was
neglected, and Kitty, the cook, who took life "aisy," kept him on short
commons. When he went out in the morning he was bewildered by small
commissions for the captive mamma; if he came gayly in at night, eager
to embrace his family, he was quenched by a "Hush! they are just asleep
after worrying all day." If he proposed a little amusement at home, "No,
it would disturb the babies." If he hinted at a lecture or concert, he
was answered with a reproachful look, and a decided "Leave my children
for pleasure, never!" His sleep was broken by infant wails and visions
of a phantom figure pacing noiselessly to and fro in the watches of the
night; his meals were interrupted by the frequent flight of the
presiding genius, who deserted him, half-helped, if a muffled chirp
sounded from the nest above; and when he read his paper of an evening,
Demi's colic got into the shipping-list, and Daisy's fall affected the
price of stocks, for Mrs. Brooke was only interested in domestic news.

The poor man was very uncomfortable, for the children had bereft him of
his wife; home was merely a nursery, and the perpetual "hushing" made
him feel like a brutal intruder whenever he entered the sacred precincts
of Babyland. He bore it very patiently for six months, and, when no
signs of amendment appeared, he did what other paternal exiles
do,--tried to get a little comfort elsewhere. Scott had married and gone
to housekeeping not far off, and John fell into the way of running over
for an hour or two of an evening, when his own parlor was empty, and his
own wife singing lullabies that seemed to have no end. Mrs. Scott was a
lively, pretty girl, with nothing to do but be agreeable, and she
performed her mission most successfully. The parlor was always bright
and attractive, the chess-board ready, the piano in tune, plenty of gay
gossip, and a nice little supper set forth in tempting style.

John would have preferred his own fireside if it had not been so lonely;
but as it was, he gratefully took the next best thing, and enjoyed his
neighbor's society.

Meg rather approved of the new arrangement at first, and found it a
relief to know that John was having a good time instead of dozing in the
parlor, or tramping about the house and waking the children. But by and
by, when the teething worry was over, and the idols went to sleep at
proper hours, leaving mamma time to rest, she began to miss John, and
find her work-basket dull company, when he was not sitting opposite in
his old dressing-gown, comfortably scorching his slippers on the fender.
She would not ask him to stay at home, but felt injured because he did
not know that she wanted him without being told, entirely forgetting the
many evenings he had waited for her in vain. She was nervous and worn
out with watching and worry, and in that unreasonable frame of mind
which the best of mothers occasionally experience when domestic cares
oppress them. Want of exercise robs them of cheerfulness, and too much
devotion to that idol of American women, the teapot, makes them feel as
if they were all nerve and no muscle.

"Yes," she would say, looking in the glass, "I'm getting old and ugly;
John doesn't find me interesting any longer, so he leaves his faded wife
and goes to see his pretty neighbor, who has no incumbrances. Well, the
babies love me; they don't care if I am thin and pale, and haven't time
to crimp my hair; they are my comfort, and some day John will see what
I've gladly sacrificed for them, won't he, my precious?"

To which pathetic appeal Daisy would answer with a coo, or Demi with a
crow, and Meg would put by her lamentations for a maternal revel, which
soothed her solitude for the time being. But the pain increased as
politics absorbed John, who was always running over to discuss
interesting points with Scott, quite unconscious that Meg missed him.
Not a word did she say, however, till her mother found her in tears one
day, and insisted on knowing what the matter was, for Meg's drooping
spirits had not escaped her observation.

"I wouldn't tell any one except you, mother; but I really do need
advice, for, if John goes on so much longer I might as well be widowed,"
replied Mrs. Brooke, drying her tears on Daisy's bib, with an injured
air.

"Goes on how, my dear?" asked her mother anxiously.

"He's away all day, and at night, when I want to see him, he is
continually going over to the Scotts'. It isn't fair that I should have
the hardest work, and never any amusement. Men are very selfish, even
the best of them."

"So are women; don't blame John till you see where you are wrong
yourself."

"But it can't be right for him to neglect me."

"Don't you neglect him?"

"Why, mother, I thought you'd take my part!"

"So I do, as far as sympathizing goes; but I think the fault is yours,
Meg."

"I don't see how."

"Let me show you. Did John ever neglect you, as you call it, while you
made it a point to give him your society of an evening, his only leisure
time?"

"No; but I can't do it now, with two babies to tend."

"I think you could, dear; and I think you ought. May I speak quite
freely, and will you remember that it's mother who blames as well as
mother who sympathizes?"

"Indeed I will! Speak to me as if I were little Meg again. I often feel
as if I needed teaching more than ever since these babies look to me for
everything."

Meg drew her low chair beside her mother's, and, with a little
interruption in either lap, the two women rocked and talked lovingly
together, feeling that the tie of motherhood made them more one than
ever.

"You have only made the mistake that most young wives make,--forgotten
your duty to your husband in your love for your children. A very natural
and forgivable mistake, Meg, but one that had better be remedied before
you take to different ways; for children should draw you nearer than
ever, not separate you, as if they were all yours, and John had nothing
to do but support them. I've seen it for some weeks, but have not
spoken, feeling sure it would come right in time."

"I'm afraid it won't. If I ask him to stay, he'll think I'm jealous; and
I wouldn't insult him by such an idea. He doesn't see that I want him,
and I don't know how to tell him without words."

"Make it so pleasant he won't want to go away. My dear, he's longing for
his little home; but it isn't home without you, and you are always in
the nursery."

"Oughtn't I to be there?"

"Not all the time; too much confinement makes you nervous, and then you
are unfitted for everything. Besides, you owe something to John as well
as to the babies; don't neglect husband for children, don't shut him out
of the nursery, but teach him how to help in it. His place is there as
well as yours, and the children need him; let him feel that he has his
part to do, and he will do it gladly and faithfully, and it will be
better for you all."

"You really think so, mother?"

"I know it, Meg, for I've tried it; and I seldom give advice unless I've
proved its practicability. When you and Jo were little, I went on just
as you are, feeling as if I didn't do my duty unless I devoted myself
wholly to you. Poor father took to his books, after I had refused all
offers of help, and left me to try my experiment alone. I struggled
along as well as I could, but Jo was too much for me. I nearly spoilt
her by indulgence. You were poorly, and I worried about you till I fell
sick myself. Then father came to the rescue, quietly managed everything,
and made himself so helpful that I saw my mistake, and never have been
able to get on without him since. That is the secret of our home
happiness: he does not let business wean him from the little cares and
duties that affect us all, and I try not to let domestic worries destroy
my interest in his pursuits. Each do our part alone in many things, but
at home we work together, always."

"It is so, mother; and my great wish is to be to my husband and children
what you have been to yours. Show me how; I'll do anything you say."

"You always were my docile daughter. Well, dear, if I were you, I'd let
John have more to do with the management of Demi, for the boy needs
training, and it's none too soon to begin. Then I'd do what I have often
proposed, let Hannah come and help you; she is a capital nurse, and you
may trust the precious babies to her while you do more housework. You
need the exercise, Hannah would enjoy the rest, and John would find his
wife again. Go out more; keep cheerful as well as busy, for you are the
sunshine-maker of the family, and if you get dismal there is no fair
weather. Then I'd try to take an interest in whatever John likes,--talk
with him, let him read to you, exchange ideas, and help each other in
that way. Don't shut yourself up in a bandbox because you are a woman,
but understand what is going on, and educate yourself to take your part
in the world's work, for it all affects you and yours."

"John is so sensible, I'm afraid he will think I'm stupid if I ask
questions about politics and things."

"I don't believe he would; love covers a multitude of sins, and of whom
could you ask more freely than of him? Try it, and see if he doesn't
find your society far more agreeable than Mrs. Scott's suppers."

"I will. Poor John! I'm afraid I _have_ neglected him sadly, but I
thought I was right, and he never said anything."

"He tried not to be selfish, but he _has_ felt rather forlorn, I fancy.
This is just the time, Meg, when young married people are apt to grow
apart, and the very time when they ought to be most together; for the
first tenderness soon wears off, unless care is taken to preserve it;
and no time is so beautiful and precious to parents as the first years
of the little lives given them to train. Don't let John be a stranger to
the babies, for they will do more to keep him safe and happy in this
world of trial and temptation than anything else, and through them you
will learn to know and love one another as you should. Now, dear,
good-by; think over mother's preachment, act upon it if it seems good,
and God bless you all!"

Meg did think it over, found it good, and acted upon it, though the
first attempt was not made exactly as she planned to have it. Of course
the children tyrannized over her, and ruled the house as soon as they
found out that kicking and squalling brought them whatever they wanted.
Mamma was an abject slave to their caprices, but papa was not so easily
subjugated, and occasionally afflicted his tender spouse by an attempt
at paternal discipline with his obstreperous son. For Demi inherited a
trifle of his sire's firmness of character,--we won't call it
obstinacy,--and when he made up his little mind to have or to do
anything, all the king's horses and all the king's men could not change
that pertinacious little mind. Mamma thought the dear too young to be
taught to conquer his prejudices, but papa believed that it never was
too soon to learn obedience; so Master Demi early discovered that when
he undertook to "wrastle" with "parpar," he always got the worst of it;
yet, like the Englishman, Baby respected the man who conquered him, and
loved the father whose grave "No, no," was more impressive than all
mamma's love-pats.

A few days after the talk with her mother, Meg resolved to try a social
evening with John; so she ordered a nice supper, set the parlor in
order, dressed herself prettily, and put the children to bed early, that
nothing should interfere with her experiment. But, unfortunately, Demi's
most unconquerable prejudice was against going to bed, and that night he
decided to go on a rampage; so poor Meg sung and rocked, told stories
and tried every sleep-provoking wile she could devise, but all in vain,
the big eyes wouldn't shut; and long after Daisy had gone to byelow,
like the chubby little bunch of good-nature she was, naughty Demi lay
staring at the light, with the most discouragingly wide-awake expression
of countenance.

"Will Demi lie still like a good boy, while mamma runs down and gives
poor papa his tea?" asked Meg, as the hall-door softly closed, and the
well-known step went tiptoeing into the dining-room.

"Me has tea!" said Demi, preparing to join in the revel.

"No; but I'll save you some little cakies for breakfast, if you'll go
bye-by like Daisy. Will you, lovey?"

"Iss!" and Demi shut his eyes tight, as if to catch sleep and hurry the
desired day.

Taking advantage of the propitious moment, Meg slipped away, and ran
down to greet her husband with a smiling face, and the little blue bow
in her hair which was his especial admiration. He saw it at once, and
said, with pleased surprise,--

"Why, little mother, how gay we are to-night. Do you expect company?"

"Only you, dear."

"Is it a birthday, anniversary, or anything?"

"No; I'm tired of being a dowdy, so I dressed up as a change. You always
make yourself nice for table, no matter how tired you are; so why
shouldn't I when I have the time?"

"I do it out of respect to you, my dear," said old-fashioned John.

"Ditto, ditto, Mr. Brooke," laughed Meg, looking young and pretty again,
as she nodded to him over the teapot.

"Well, it's altogether delightful, and like old times. This tastes
right. I drink your health, dear." And John sipped his tea with an air
of reposeful rapture, which was of very short duration, however; for, as
he put down his cup, the door-handle rattled mysteriously, and a little
voice was heard, saying impatiently,--

"Opy doy; me's tummin!"

"It's that naughty boy. I told him to go to sleep alone, and here he is,
downstairs, getting his death a-cold pattering over that canvas," said
Meg, answering the call.

                      [Illustration: Mornin' now]

"Mornin' now," announced Demi, in a joyful tone, as he entered, with his
long night-gown gracefully festooned over his arm, and every curl
bobbing gayly as he pranced about the table, eying the "cakies" with
loving glances.

"No, it isn't morning yet. You must go to bed, and not trouble poor
mamma; then you can have the little cake with sugar on it."

"Me loves parpar," said the artful one, preparing to climb the paternal
knee, and revel in forbidden joys. But John shook his head, and said to
Meg,--

"If you told him to stay up there, and go to sleep alone, make him do
it, or he will never learn to mind you."

"Yes, of course. Come, Demi;" and Meg led her son away, feeling a
strong desire to spank the little marplot who hopped beside her,
laboring under the delusion that the bribe was to be administered as
soon as they reached the nursery.

Nor was he disappointed; for that short-sighted woman actually gave him
a lump of sugar, tucked him into his bed, and forbade any more
promenades till morning.

"Iss!" said Demi the perjured, blissfully sucking his sugar, and
regarding his first attempt as eminently successful.

Meg returned to her place, and supper was progressing pleasantly, when
the little ghost walked again, and exposed the maternal delinquencies by
boldly demanding,--

"More sudar, marmar."

"Now this won't do," said John, hardening his heart against the engaging
little sinner. "We shall never know any peace till that child learns to
go to bed properly. You have made a slave of yourself long enough; give
him one lesson, and then there will be an end of it. Put him in his bed
and leave him, Meg."

"He won't stay there; he never does, unless I sit by him."

"I'll manage him. Demi, go upstairs, and get into your bed, as mamma
bids you."

"S'ant!" replied the young rebel, helping himself to the coveted
"cakie," and beginning to eat the same with calm audacity.

"You must never say that to papa; I shall carry you if you don't go
yourself."

"Go 'way; me don't love parpar;" and Demi retired to his mother's skirts
for protection.

But even that refuge proved unavailing, for he was delivered over to the
enemy, with a "Be gentle with him, John," which struck the culprit with
dismay; for when mamma deserted him, then the judgment-day was at hand.
Bereft of his cake, defrauded of his frolic, and borne away by a strong
hand to that detested bed, poor Demi could not restrain his wrath, but
openly defied papa, and kicked and screamed lustily all the way
upstairs. The minute he was put into bed on one side, he rolled out on
the other, and made for the door, only to be ignominiously caught up by
the tail of his little toga, and put back again, which lively
performance was kept up till the young man's strength gave out, when he
devoted himself to roaring at the top of his voice. This vocal exercise
usually conquered Meg; but John sat as unmoved as the post which is
popularly believed to be deaf. No coaxing, no sugar, no lullaby, no
story; even the light was put out, and only the red glow of the fire
enlivened the "big dark" which Demi regarded with curiosity rather than
fear. This new order of things disgusted him, and he howled dismally for
"marmar," as his angry passions subsided, and recollections of his
tender bondwoman returned to the captive autocrat. The plaintive wail
which succeeded the passionate roar went to Meg's heart, and she ran up
to say beseechingly,--

"Let me stay with him; he'll be good, now, John."

"No, my dear, I've told him he must go to sleep, as you bid him; and he
must, if I stay here all night."

"But he'll cry himself sick," pleaded Meg, reproaching herself for
deserting her boy.

"No, he won't, he's so tired he will soon drop off, and then the matter
is settled; for he will understand that he has got to mind. Don't
interfere; I'll manage him."

"He's my child, and I can't have his spirit broken by harshness."

"He's my child, and I won't have his temper spoilt by indulgence. Go
down, my dear, and leave the boy to me."

When John spoke in that masterful tone, Meg always obeyed, and never
regretted her docility.

"Please let me kiss him once, John?"

"Certainly. Demi, say 'good-night' to mamma, and let her go and rest,
for she is very tired with taking care of you all day."

Meg always insisted upon it that the kiss won the victory; for after it
was given, Demi sobbed more quietly, and lay quite still at the bottom
of the bed, whither he had wriggled in his anguish of mind.

"Poor little man, he's worn out with sleep and crying. I'll cover him
up, and then go and set Meg's heart at rest," thought John, creeping to
the bedside, hoping to find his rebellious heir asleep.

But he wasn't; for the moment his father peeped at him, Demi's eyes
opened, his little chin began to quiver, and he put up his arms, saying,
with a penitent hiccough, "Me's dood, now."

Sitting on the stairs, outside, Meg wondered at the long silence which
followed the uproar; and, after imagining all sorts of impossible
accidents, she slipped into the room, to set her fears at rest. Demi lay
fast asleep; not in his usual spread-eagle attitude, but in a subdued
bunch, cuddled close in the circle of his father's arm and holding his
father's finger, as if he felt that justice was tempered with mercy, and
had gone to sleep a sadder and a wiser baby. So held, John had waited
with womanly patience till the little hand relaxed its hold; and, while
waiting, had fallen asleep, more tired by that tussle with his son than
with his whole day's work.

As Meg stood watching the two faces on the pillow, she smiled to
herself, and then slipped away again, saying, in a satisfied tone,--

"I never need fear that John will be too harsh with my babies: he _does_
know how to manage them, and will be a great help, for Demi _is_ getting
too much for me."

When John came down at last, expecting to find a pensive or reproachful
wife, he was agreeably surprised to find Meg placidly trimming a bonnet,
and to be greeted with the request to read something about the election,
if he was not too tired. John saw in a minute that a revolution of some
kind was going on, but wisely asked no questions, knowing that Meg was
such a transparent little person, she couldn't keep a secret to save her
life, and therefore the clew would soon appear. He read a long debate
with the most amiable readiness, and then explained it in his most lucid
manner, while Meg tried to look deeply interested, to ask intelligent
questions, and keep her thoughts from wandering from the state of the
nation to the state of her bonnet. In her secret soul, however, she
decided that politics were as bad as mathematics, and that the mission
of politicians seemed to be calling each other names; but she kept these
feminine ideas to herself, and when John paused, shook her head, and
said with what she thought diplomatic ambiguity,--

"Well, I really don't see what we are coming to."

John laughed, and watched her for a minute, as she poised a pretty
little preparation of lace and flowers on her hand, and regarded it with
the genuine interest which his harangue had failed to waken.

"She is trying to like politics for my sake, so I'll try and like
millinery for hers, that's only fair," thought John the Just, adding
aloud,--

"That's very pretty; is it what you call a breakfast-cap?"

               [Illustration: My dear man, it's a bonnet]

"My dear man, it's a bonnet! My very best go-to-concert-and-theatre
bonnet."

"I beg your pardon; it was so small, I naturally mistook it for one of
the fly-away things you sometimes wear. How do you keep it on?"

"These bits of lace are fastened under the chin with a rosebud, so;" and
Meg illustrated by putting on the bonnet, and regarding him with an air
of calm satisfaction that was irresistible.

"It's a love of a bonnet, but I prefer the face inside, for it looks
young and happy again," and John kissed the smiling face, to the great
detriment of the rosebud under the chin.

"I'm glad you like it, for I want you to take me to one of the new
concerts some night; I really need some music to put me in tune. Will
you, please?"

"Of course I will, with all my heart, or anywhere else you like. You
have been shut up so long, it will do you no end of good, and I shall
enjoy it, of all things. What put it into your head, little mother?"

"Well, I had a talk with Marmee the other day, and told her how nervous
and cross and out of sorts I felt, and she said I needed change and less
care; so Hannah is to help me with the children, and I'm to see to
things about the house more, and now and then have a little fun, just to
keep me from getting to be a fidgety, broken-down old woman before my
time. It's only an experiment, John, and I want to try it for your sake
as much as for mine, because I've neglected you shamefully lately, and
I'm going to make home what it used to be, if I can. You don't object, I
hope?"

Never mind what John said, or what a very narrow escape the little
bonnet had from utter ruin; all that we have any business to know, is
that John did _not_ appear to object, judging from the changes which
gradually took place in the house and its inmates. It was not all
Paradise by any means, but every one was better for the division of
labor system; the children throve under the paternal rule, for accurate,
steadfast John brought order and obedience into Babydom, while Meg
recovered her spirits and composed her nerves by plenty of wholesome
exercise, a little pleasure, and much confidential conversation with her
sensible husband. Home grew home-like again, and John had no wish to
leave it, unless he took Meg with him. The Scotts came to the Brookes'
now, and every one found the little house a cheerful place, full of
happiness, content, and family love. Even gay Sallie Moffatt liked to go
there. "It is always so quiet and pleasant here; it does me good, Meg,"
she used to say, looking about her with wistful eyes, as if trying to
discover the charm, that she might use it in her great house, full of
splendid loneliness; for there were no riotous, sunny-faced babies
there, and Ned lived in a world of his own, where there was no place for
her.

This household happiness did not come all at once, but John and Meg had
found the key to it, and each year of married life taught them how to
use it, unlocking the treasuries of real home-love and mutual
helpfulness, which the poorest may possess, and the richest cannot buy.
This is the sort of shelf on which young wives and mothers may consent
to be laid, safe from the restless fret and fever of the world, finding
loyal lovers in the little sons and daughters who cling to them,
undaunted by sorrow, poverty, or age; walking side by side, through fair
and stormy weather, with a faithful friend, who is, in the true sense of
the good old Saxon word, the "house-band," and learning, as Meg learned,
that a woman's happiest kingdom is home, her highest honor the art of
ruling it, not as a queen, but a wise wife and mother.

                       [Illustration: Tail-piece]

     [Illustration: Sat piping on a stone while his goats skipped]

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

completion: The narrator begins this chapter by considering the different treatment that married and single women receive in America and in France. In America, married women seem to be put "on the shelf" - even though they're still young and pretty, they're not admired as part of fashionable society. About a year after Meg's babies are born, she starts to feel confined to the nursery and left out of the larger affairs of the world - even disconnected from her husband. Meg lets herself get completely obsessed with her children. John feels uncomfortable in his own house and starts spending his evenings with friends. At first, Meg is glad to have John out of the way, but then she starts to miss him and feel lonely. She doesn't really have any adult company, except for her cook, Kitty. Meg starts to feel like she must be getting old and ugly; she thinks maybe John doesn't love her as much anymore. One day, Marmee finds Meg in tears and asks what's wrong. Meg says that John has been neglecting her by spending all his time with Mr. and Mrs. Scott. Marmee gently suggests that Meg has caused the problem herself by making John feel like he's not a part of the family. She tells Meg to try and take an interest in politics and in the other things that John follows, and also to involve John more with the children. Meg is dubious about this plan, but Marmee assures her that she made the same mistake when she was a young mother, and that sharing the burdens of child-rearing - and also trying to lead an adult life and not let the kids' needs take over - will help. Marmee suggests that Meg involve John more with Demi's upbringing. Even as a toddler, the little boy is mischievous and willful, and Marmee thinks he needs his father's discipline. Meg starts following her mother's advice. This is a shock for Demi, who is used to being spoiled and having his own way all the time. His father refuses to spoil him. One evening, Meg tries to make some time for her and John to have a nice meal together as adults after the children are in bed. Unfortunately, Demi refuses to go to sleep. Finally, Meg makes Demi settle down by promising to feed him cake in the morning. She dresses up and goes downstairs to have the evening meal, which they call tea, with John. John is pleasantly surprised that Meg is dressed up and they start eating together. But almost immediately Demi comes in and says that it's morning now and he wants his cake! Meg tries to put Demi to bed again, but he's fussy and refuses. She gives him a lump of sugar and goes back downstairs. Demi follows her down and asks for more sugar. This time John has had enough and carries Demi upstairs. SuperNanny would be proud - we hear this is exactly what you're supposed to do. Demi throws a tantrum, crying, and screaming. He keeps getting out of bed, and every time John puts him back in. Finally he stays in bed, but still screaming and hollering. Meg begs John to let her take care of Demi, but he insists on being firm. He lets her kiss Demi good night, and then makes her leave the room. Demi finally calms down and falls asleep. Meg creeps back into the room and sees John sitting quietly by Demi's bed. Demi is holding tightly to his father's finger. Meg realizes that John can be tender with the children as well as firm. John comes downstairs and finds Meg trimming her bonnet . She asks him to read the election news from the newspaper while she works. Meg tries to be interested in it. In return, John tries to be interested in Meg's bonnet. She says that it's a fancy one to wear to concerts and the theater sometime and asks him to take her to a concert soon - she's been shut up at home too much. John agrees. John asks what made Meg change how she was doing things, and Meg describes her talk with Marmee. John is delighted and gives her a big kiss. The Brookes go on together like this, caring for their children together and also making time for themselves as a couple. They don't have the recipe for marriage perfect at first, but gradually they make things work very well.


prompt:
Chapter: XXXIX. LAZY LAURENCE.

Laurie went to Nice intending to stay a week, and remained a month. He
was tired of wandering about alone, and Amy's familiar presence seemed
to give a home-like charm to the foreign scenes in which she bore a
part. He rather missed the "petting" he used to receive, and enjoyed a
taste of it again; for no attentions, however flattering, from
strangers, were half so pleasant as the sisterly adoration of the girls
at home. Amy never would pet him like the others, but she was very glad
to see him now, and quite clung to him, feeling that he was the
representative of the dear family for whom she longed more than she
would confess. They naturally took comfort in each other's society, and
were much together, riding, walking, dancing, or dawdling, for, at Nice,
no one can be very industrious during the gay season. But, while
apparently amusing themselves in the most careless fashion, they were
half-consciously making discoveries and forming opinions about each
other. Amy rose daily in the estimation of her friend, but he sunk in
hers, and each felt the truth before a word was spoken. Amy tried to
please, and succeeded, for she was grateful for the many pleasures he
gave her, and repaid him with the little services to which womanly women
know how to lend an indescribable charm. Laurie made no effort of any
kind, but just let himself drift along as comfortably as possible,
trying to forget, and feeling that all women owed him a kind word
because one had been cold to him. It cost him no effort to be generous,
and he would have given Amy all the trinkets in Nice if she would have
taken them; but, at the same time, he felt that he could not change the
opinion she was forming of him, and he rather dreaded the keen blue eyes
that seemed to watch him with such half-sorrowful, half-scornful
surprise.

"All the rest have gone to Monaco for the day; I preferred to stay at
home and write letters. They are done now, and I am going to Valrosa to
sketch; will you come?" said Amy, as she joined Laurie one lovely day
when he lounged in as usual, about noon.

"Well, yes; but isn't it rather warm for such a long walk?" he answered
slowly, for the shaded _salon_ looked inviting, after the glare without.

"I'm going to have the little carriage, and Baptiste can drive, so
you'll have nothing to do but hold your umbrella and keep your gloves
nice," returned Amy, with a sarcastic glance at the immaculate kids,
which were a weak point with Laurie.

"Then I'll go with pleasure;" and he put out his hand for her
sketch-book. But she tucked it under her arm with a sharp--

"Don't trouble yourself; it's no exertion to me, but _you_ don't look
equal to it."

Laurie lifted his eyebrows, and followed at a leisurely pace as she ran
downstairs; but when they got into the carriage he took the reins
himself, and left little Baptiste nothing to do but fold his arms and
fall asleep on his perch.

The two never quarrelled,--Amy was too well-bred, and just now Laurie
was too lazy; so, in a minute he peeped under her hat-brim with an
inquiring air; she answered with a smile, and they went on together in
the most amicable manner.

It was a lovely drive, along winding roads rich in the picturesque
scenes that delight beauty-loving eyes. Here an ancient monastery,
whence the solemn chanting of the monks came down to them. There a
bare-legged shepherd, in wooden shoes, pointed hat, and rough jacket
over one shoulder, sat piping on a stone, while his goats skipped among
the rocks or lay at his feet. Meek, mouse-colored donkeys, laden with
panniers of freshly-cut grass, passed by, with a pretty girl in a
_capaline_ sitting between the green piles, or an old woman spinning
with a distaff as she went. Brown, soft-eyed children ran out from the
quaint stone hovels to offer nosegays, or bunches of oranges still on
the bough. Gnarled olive-trees covered the hills with their dusky
foliage, fruit hung golden in the orchard, and great scarlet anemones
fringed the roadside; while beyond green slopes and craggy heights, the
Maritime Alps rose sharp and white against the blue Italian sky.

Valrosa well deserved its name, for, in that climate of perpetual
summer, roses blossomed everywhere. They overhung the archway, thrust
themselves between the bars of the great gate with a sweet welcome to
passers-by, and lined the avenue, winding through lemon-trees and
feathery palms up to the villa on the hill. Every shadowy nook, where
seats invited one to stop and rest, was a mass of bloom; every cool
grotto had its marble nymph smiling from a veil of flowers, and every
fountain reflected crimson, white, or pale pink roses, leaning down to
smile at their own beauty. Roses covered the walls of the house, draped
the cornices, climbed the pillars, and ran riot over the balustrade of
the wide terrace, whence one looked down on the sunny Mediterranean, and
the white-walled city on its shore.

"This is a regular honeymoon Paradise, isn't it? Did you ever see such
roses?" asked Amy, pausing on the terrace to enjoy the view, and a
luxurious whiff of perfume that came wandering by.

"No, nor felt such thorns," returned Laurie, with his thumb in his
mouth, after a vain attempt to capture a solitary scarlet flower that
grew just beyond his reach.

"Try lower down, and pick those that have no thorns," said Amy,
gathering three of the tiny cream-colored ones that starred the wall
behind her. She put them in his button-hole, as a peace-offering, and he
stood a minute looking down at them with a curious expression, for in
the Italian part of his nature there was a touch of superstition, and
he was just then in that state of half-sweet, half-bitter melancholy,
when imaginative young men find significance in trifles, and food for
romance everywhere. He had thought of Jo in reaching after the thorny
red rose, for vivid flowers became her, and she had often worn ones like
that from the greenhouse at home. The pale roses Amy gave him were the
sort that the Italians lay in dead hands, never in bridal wreaths, and,
for a moment, he wondered if the omen was for Jo or for himself; but the
next instant his American common-sense got the better of sentimentality,
and he laughed a heartier laugh than Amy had heard since he came.

"It's good advice; you'd better take it and save your fingers," she
said, thinking her speech amused him.

"Thank you, I will," he answered in jest, and a few months later he did
it in earnest.

"Laurie, when are you going to your grandfather?" she asked presently,
as she settled herself on a rustic seat.

"Very soon."

"You have said that a dozen times within the last three weeks."

"I dare say; short answers save trouble."

"He expects you, and you really ought to go."

"Hospitable creature! I know it."

"Then why don't you do it?"

"Natural depravity, I suppose."

"Natural indolence, you mean. It's really dreadful!" and Amy looked
severe.

"Not so bad as it seems, for I should only plague him if I went, so I
might as well stay, and plague you a little longer, you can bear it
better; in fact, I think it agrees with you excellently;" and Laurie
composed himself for a lounge on the broad ledge of the balustrade.

Amy shook her head, and opened her sketch-book with an air of
resignation; but she had made up her mind to lecture "that boy," and in
a minute she began again.

"What are you doing just now?"

"Watching lizards."

"No, no; I mean what do you intend and wish to do?"

"Smoke a cigarette, if you'll allow me."

"How provoking you are! I don't approve of cigars, and I will only allow
it on condition that you let me put you into my sketch; I need a
figure."

"With all the pleasure in life. How will you have me,--full-length or
three-quarters, on my head or my heels? I should respectfully suggest a
recumbent posture, then put yourself in also, and call it '_Dolce far
niente._'"

"Stay as you are, and go to sleep if you like. _I_ intend to work hard,"
said Amy, in her most energetic tone.

"What delightful enthusiasm!" and he leaned against a tall urn with an
air of entire satisfaction.

"What would Jo say if she saw you now?" asked Amy impatiently, hoping to
stir him up by the mention of her still more energetic sister's name.

"As usual, 'Go away, Teddy, I'm busy!'" He laughed as he spoke, but the
laugh was not natural, and a shade passed over his face, for the
utterance of the familiar name touched the wound that was not healed
yet. Both tone and shadow struck Amy, for she had seen and heard them
before, and now she looked up in time to catch a new expression on
Laurie's face,--a hard, bitter look, full of pain, dissatisfaction, and
regret. It was gone before she could study it, and the listless
expression back again. She watched him for a moment with artistic
pleasure, thinking how like an Italian he looked, as he lay basking in
the sun with uncovered head, and eyes full of southern dreaminess; for
he seemed to have forgotten her, and fallen into a reverie.

"You look like the effigy of a young knight asleep on his tomb," she
said, carefully tracing the well-cut profile defined against the dark
stone.

"Wish I was!"

"That's a foolish wish, unless you have spoilt your life. You are so
changed, I sometimes think--" there Amy stopped, with a half-timid,
half-wistful look, more significant than her unfinished speech.

Laurie saw and understood the affectionate anxiety which she hesitated
to express, and looking straight into her eyes, said, just as he used to
say it to her mother,--

"It's all right, ma'am."

That satisfied her and set at rest the doubts that had begun to worry
her lately. It also touched her, and she showed that it did, by the
cordial tone in which she said,--

"I'm glad of that! I didn't think you'd been a very bad boy, but I
fancied you might have wasted money at that wicked Baden-Baden, lost
your heart to some charming Frenchwoman with a husband, or got into some
of the scrapes that young men seem to consider a necessary part of a
foreign tour. Don't stay out there in the sun; come and lie on the grass
here, and 'let us be friendly,' as Jo used to say when we got in the
sofa-corner and told secrets."

         [Illustration: Laurie threw himself down on the turf]

Laurie obediently threw himself down on the turf, and began to amuse
himself by sticking daisies into the ribbons of Amy's hat, that lay
there.

"I'm all ready for the secrets;" and he glanced up with a decided
expression of interest in his eyes.

"I've none to tell; you may begin."

"Haven't one to bless myself with. I thought perhaps you'd had some news
from home."

"You have heard all that has come lately. Don't you hear often? I
fancied Jo would send you volumes."

"She's very busy; I'm roving about so, it's impossible to be regular,
you know. When do you begin your great work of art, Raphaella?" he
asked, changing the subject abruptly after another pause, in which he
had been wondering if Amy knew his secret, and wanted to talk about it.

"Never," she answered, with a despondent but decided air. "Rome took all
the vanity out of me; for after seeing the wonders there, I felt too
insignificant to live, and gave up all my foolish hopes in despair."

"Why should you, with so much energy and talent?"

"That's just why,--because talent isn't genius, and no amount of energy
can make it so. I want to be great, or nothing. I won't be a
common-place dauber, so I don't intend to try any more."

"And what are you going to do with yourself now, if I may ask?"

"Polish up my other talents, and be an ornament to society, if I get the
chance."

It was a characteristic speech, and sounded daring; but audacity becomes
young people, and Amy's ambition had a good foundation. Laurie smiled,
but he liked the spirit with which she took up a new purpose when a
long-cherished one died, and spent no time lamenting.

"Good! and here is where Fred Vaughn comes in, I fancy."

Amy preserved a discreet silence, but there was a conscious look in her
downcast face, that made Laurie sit up and say gravely,--

"Now I'm going to play brother, and ask questions. May I?"

"I don't promise to answer."

"Your face will, if your tongue won't. You aren't woman of the world
enough yet to hide your feelings, my dear. I heard rumors about Fred and
you last year, and it's my private opinion that, if he had not been
called home so suddenly and detained so long, something would have come
of it--hey?"

"That's not for me to say," was Amy's prim reply; but her lips would
smile, and there was a traitorous sparkle of the eye, which betrayed
that she knew her power and enjoyed the knowledge.

"You are not engaged, I hope?" and Laurie looked very elder-brotherly
and grave all of a sudden.

"No."

"But you will be, if he comes back and goes properly down upon his
knees, won't you?"

"Very likely."

"Then you are fond of old Fred?"

"I could be, if I tried."

"But you don't intend to try till the proper moment? Bless my soul, what
unearthly prudence! He's a good fellow, Amy, but not the man I fancied
you'd like."

"He is rich, a gentleman, and has delightful manners," began Amy, trying
to be quite cool and dignified, but feeling a little ashamed of herself,
in spite of the sincerity of her intentions.

"I understand; queens of society can't get on without money, so you mean
to make a good match, and start in that way? Quite right and proper, as
the world goes, but it sounds odd from the lips of one of your mother's
girls."

"True, nevertheless."

A short speech, but the quiet decision with which it was uttered
contrasted curiously with the young speaker. Laurie felt this
instinctively, and laid himself down again, with a sense of
disappointment which he could not explain. His look and silence, as well
as a certain inward self-disapproval, ruffled Amy, and made her resolve
to deliver her lecture without delay.

"I wish you'd do me the favor to rouse yourself a little," she said
sharply.

"Do it for me, there's a dear girl."

"I could, if I tried;" and she looked as if she would like doing it in
the most summary style.

"Try, then; I give you leave," returned Laurie, who enjoyed having some
one to tease, after his long abstinence from his favorite pastime.

"You'd be angry in five minutes."

"I'm never angry with you. It takes two flints to make a fire: you are
as cool and soft as snow."

"You don't know what I can do; snow produces a glow and a tingle, if
applied rightly. Your indifference is half affectation, and a good
stirring up would prove it."

"Stir away; it won't hurt me and it may amuse you, as the big man said
when his little wife beat him. Regard me in the light of a husband or a
carpet, and beat till you are tired, if that sort of exercise agrees
with you."

Being decidedly nettled herself, and longing to see him shake off the
apathy that so altered him, Amy sharpened both tongue and pencil, and
began:--

"Flo and I have got a new name for you; it's 'Lazy Laurence.' How do you
like it?"

She thought it would annoy him; but he only folded his arms under his
head, with an imperturbable "That's not bad. Thank you, ladies."

"Do you want to know what I honestly think of you?"

"Pining to be told."

"Well, I despise you."

If she had even said "I hate you," in a petulant or coquettish tone, he
would have laughed, and rather liked it; but the grave, almost sad,
accent of her voice made him open his eyes, and ask quickly,--

"Why, if you please?"

"Because, with every chance for being good, useful, and happy, you are
faulty, lazy, and miserable."

"Strong language, mademoiselle."

"If you like it, I'll go on."

"Pray, do; it's quite interesting."

"I thought you'd find it so; selfish people always like to talk about
themselves."

"Am _I_ selfish?" The question slipped out involuntarily and in a tone
of surprise, for the one virtue on which he prided himself was
generosity.

"Yes, very selfish," continued Amy, in a calm, cool voice, twice as
effective, just then, as an angry one. "I'll show you how, for I've
studied you while we have been frolicking, and I'm not at all satisfied
with you. Here you have been abroad nearly six months, and done nothing
but waste time and money and disappoint your friends."

"Isn't a fellow to have any pleasure after a four-years grind?"

"You don't look as if you'd had much; at any rate, you are none the
better for it, as far as I can see. I said, when we first met, that you
had improved. Now I take it all back, for I don't think you half so nice
as when I left you at home. You have grown abominably lazy; you like
gossip, and waste time on frivolous things; you are contented to be
petted and admired by silly people, instead of being loved and respected
by wise ones. With money, talent, position, health, and beauty,--ah, you
like that, Old Vanity! but it's the truth, so I can't help saying
it,--with all these splendid things to use and enjoy, you can find
nothing to do but dawdle; and, instead of being the man you might and
ought to be, you are only--" There she stopped, with a look that had
both pain and pity in it.

"Saint Laurence on a gridiron," added Laurie, blandly finishing the
sentence. But the lecture began to take effect, for there was a
wide-awake sparkle in his eyes now, and a half-angry, half-injured
expression replaced the former indifference.

"I supposed you'd take it so. You men tell us we are angels, and say we
can make you what we will; but the instant we honestly try to do you
good, you laugh at us, and won't listen, which proves how much your
flattery is worth." Amy spoke bitterly, and turned her back on the
exasperating martyr at her feet.

In a minute a hand came down over the page, so that she could not draw,
and Laurie's voice said, with a droll imitation of a penitent child,--

"I will be good, oh, I will be good!"

But Amy did not laugh, for she was in earnest; and, tapping on the
outspread hand with her pencil, said soberly,--

"Aren't you ashamed of a hand like that? It's as soft and white as a
woman's, and looks as if it never did anything but wear Jouvin's best
gloves, and pick flowers for ladies. You are not a dandy, thank Heaven!
so I'm glad to see there are no diamonds or big seal-rings on it, only
the little old one Jo gave you so long ago. Dear soul, I wish she was
here to help me!"

"So do I!"

The hand vanished as suddenly as it came, and there was energy enough in
the echo of her wish to suit even Amy. She glanced down at him with a
new thought in her mind; but he was lying with his hat half over his
face, as if for shade, and his mustache hid his mouth. She only saw his
chest rise and fall, with a long breath that might have been a sigh, and
the hand that wore the ring nestled down into the grass, as if to hide
something too precious or too tender to be spoken of. All in a minute
various hints and trifles assumed shape and significance in Amy's mind,
and told her what her sister never had confided to her. She remembered
that Laurie never spoke voluntarily of Jo; she recalled the shadow on
his face just now, the change in his character, and the wearing of the
little old ring, which was no ornament to a handsome hand. Girls are
quick to read such signs and feel their eloquence. Amy had fancied that
perhaps a love trouble was at the bottom of the alteration, and now she
was sure of it. Her keen eyes filled, and, when she spoke again, it was
in a voice that could be beautifully soft and kind when she chose to
make it so.

"I know I have no right to talk so to you, Laurie; and if you weren't
the sweetest-tempered fellow in the world, you'd be very angry with me.
But we are all so fond and proud of you, I couldn't bear to think they
should be disappointed in you at home as I have been, though, perhaps,
they would understand the change better than I do."

"I think they would," came from under the hat, in a grim tone, quite as
touching as a broken one.

"They ought to have told me, and not let me go blundering and scolding,
when I should have been more kind and patient than ever. I never did
like that Miss Randal, and now I hate her!" said artful Amy, wishing to
be sure of her facts this time.

"Hang Miss Randal!" and Laurie knocked the hat off his face with a look
that left no doubt of his sentiments toward that young lady.

"I beg pardon; I thought--" and there she paused diplomatically.

"No, you didn't; you knew perfectly well I never cared for any one but
Jo." Laurie said that in his old, impetuous tone, and turned his face
away as he spoke.

"I did think so; but as they never said anything about it, and you came
away, I supposed I was mistaken. And Jo wouldn't be kind to you? Why, I
was sure she loved you dearly."

"She _was_ kind, but not in the right way; and it's lucky for her she
didn't love me, if I'm the good-for-nothing fellow you think me. It's
her fault, though, and you may tell her so."

The hard, bitter look came back again as he said that, and it troubled
Amy, for she did not know what balm to apply.

"I was wrong, I didn't know. I'm very sorry I was so cross, but I can't
help wishing you'd bear it better, Teddy, dear."

"Don't, that's her name for me!" and Laurie put up his hand with a quick
gesture to stop the words spoken in Jo's half-kind, half-reproachful
tone. "Wait till you've tried it yourself," he added, in a low voice, as
he pulled up the grass by the handful.

"I'd take it manfully, and be respected if I couldn't be loved," said
Amy, with the decision of one who knew nothing about it.

Now, Laurie flattered himself that he _had_ borne it remarkably well,
making no moan, asking no sympathy, and taking his trouble away to live
it down alone. Amy's lecture put the matter in a new light, and for the
first time it did look weak and selfish to lose heart at the first
failure, and shut himself up in moody indifference. He felt as if
suddenly shaken out of a pensive dream, and found it impossible to go to
sleep again. Presently he sat up, and asked slowly,--

"Do you think Jo would despise me as you do?"

"Yes, if she saw you now. She hates lazy people. Why don't you do
something splendid, and _make_ her love you?"

"I did my best, but it was no use."

"Graduating well, you mean? That was no more than you ought to have
done, for your grandfather's sake. It would have been shameful to fail
after spending so much time and money, when every one knew you _could_
do well."

"I did fail, say what you will, for Jo wouldn't love me," began Laurie,
leaning his head on his hand in a despondent attitude.

"No, you didn't, and you'll say so in the end, for it did you good, and
proved that you could do something if you tried. If you'd only set about
another task of some sort, you'd soon be your hearty, happy self again,
and forget your trouble."

"That's impossible."

"Try it and see. You needn't shrug your shoulders, and think, 'Much she
knows about such things.' I don't pretend to be wise, but I _am_
observing, and I see a great deal more than you'd imagine. I'm
interested in other people's experiences and inconsistencies; and,
though I can't explain, I remember and use them for my own benefit. Love
Jo all your days, if you choose, but don't let it spoil you, for it's
wicked to throw away so many good gifts because you can't have the one
you want. There, I won't lecture any more, for I know you'll wake up and
be a man in spite of that hardhearted girl."

Neither spoke for several minutes. Laurie sat turning the little ring on
his finger, and Amy put the last touches to the hasty sketch she had
been working at while she talked. Presently she put it on his knee,
merely saying,--

"How do you like that?"

He looked and then he smiled, as he could not well help doing, for it
was capitally done,--the long, lazy figure on the grass, with listless
face, half-shut eyes, and one hand holding a cigar, from which came the
little wreath of smoke that encircled the dreamer's head.

"How well you draw!" he said, with genuine surprise and pleasure at her
skill, adding, with a half-laugh,--

"Yes, that's me."

"As you are: this is as you were;" and Amy laid another sketch beside
the one he held.

It was not nearly so well done, but there was a life and spirit in it
which atoned for many faults, and it recalled the past so vividly that a
sudden change swept over the young man's face as he looked. Only a rough
sketch of Laurie taming a horse; hat and coat were off, and every line
of the active figure, resolute face, and commanding attitude, was full
of energy and meaning. The handsome brute, just subdued, stood arching
his neck under the tightly drawn rein, with one foot impatiently pawing
the ground, and ears pricked up as if listening for the voice that had
mastered him. In the ruffled mane, the rider's breezy hair and erect
attitude, there was a suggestion of suddenly arrested motion, of
strength, courage, and youthful buoyancy, that contrasted sharply with
the supine grace of the "_Dolce far niente_" sketch. Laurie said
nothing; but, as his eye went from one to the other, Amy saw him flush
up and fold his lips together as if he read and accepted the little
lesson she had given him. That satisfied her; and, without waiting for
him to speak, she said, in her sprightly way,--

        [Illustration: A rough sketch of Laurie taming a horse]

"Don't you remember the day you played Rarey with Puck, and we all
looked on? Meg and Beth were frightened, but Jo clapped and pranced, and
I sat on the fence and drew you. I found that sketch in my portfolio the
other day, touched it up, and kept it to show you."

"Much obliged. You've improved immensely since then, and I congratulate
you. May I venture to suggest in 'a honeymoon Paradise' that five
o'clock is the dinner-hour at your hotel?"

Laurie rose as he spoke, returned the pictures with a smile and a bow,
and looked at his watch, as if to remind her that even moral lectures
should have an end. He tried to resume his former easy, indifferent air,
but it _was_ an affectation now, for the rousing had been more
efficacious than he would confess. Amy felt the shade of coldness in his
manner, and said to herself,--

"Now I've offended him. Well, if it does him good, I'm glad; if it makes
him hate me, I'm sorry; but it's true, and I can't take back a word of
it."

They laughed and chatted all the way home; and little Baptiste, up
behind, thought that monsieur and mademoiselle were in charming spirits.
But both felt ill at ease; the friendly frankness was disturbed, the
sunshine had a shadow over it, and despite their apparent gayety, there
was a secret discontent in the heart of each.

"Shall we see you this evening, _mon frère_?" asked Amy as they parted
at her aunt's door.

"Unfortunately I have an engagement. _Au revoir, mademoiselle_," and
Laurie bent as if to kiss her hand, in the foreign fashion, which became
him better than many men. Something in his face made Amy say quickly and
warmly,--

"No; be yourself with me, Laurie, and part in the good old way. I'd
rather have a hearty English hand-shake than all the sentimental
salutations in France."

"Good-by, dear," and with these words, uttered in the tone she liked,
Laurie left her, after a hand-shake almost painful in its heartiness.

Next morning, instead of the usual call, Amy received a note which made
her smile at the beginning and sigh at the end:--

    "MY DEAR MENTOR,--

    "Please make my adieux to your aunt, and exult within yourself,
    for 'Lazy Laurence' has gone to his grandpa, like the best of
    boys. A pleasant winter to you, and may the gods grant you a
    blissful honeymoon at Valrosa! I think Fred would be benefited
    by a rouser. Tell him so, with my congratulations.

                            "Yours gratefully,          TELEMACHUS."

"Good boy! I'm glad he's gone," said Amy, with an approving smile; the
next minute her face fell as she glanced about the empty room, adding,
with an involuntary sigh,--

"Yes, I _am_ glad, but how I shall miss him!"

                [Illustration: The Valley of the Shadow]

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

completion: Laurie stays in Nice for a month hanging out with Amy. He enjoys her company and sisterly affection...or is it just sisterly? As Amy and Laurie get to know each other better as adults, they start judging each other, too. Laurie realizes just how great Amy really is, but Amy's disgusted with Laurie's laziness and selfishness. One day at noon, Laurie comes over to see Amy and she suggests that they go to Valrosa to sketch. They drive to the rose garden together in a small carriage, moving through the picturesque Italian countryside. They arrive and walk through the garden admiring the roses. Amy comments on the beautiful roses, and Laurie comments on their thorns. Amy tells him to look for roses lower down on the bushes that don't have any thorns. Laurie thinks about how symbolic this is - the thorny, inaccessible red rose reminds him of Jo, and the little, thornless white roses below it are like...you get the idea. Amy asks Laurie when he is going to go back to Paris to be with his grandfather. Laurie feels lazy and isn't in any hurry to go, but Amy chides him for delaying. Laurie tries to cut off the conversation by flirting with Amy, but she won't flirt back. She asks him what he's doing with his life these days, but he just makes jokes in return. Amy starts making a sketch of Laurie lying on the grass. She works hard and energetically, contrasting with his laziness. Amy mentions Jo, and Laurie gets distracted and bitter. Amy tells him that he looks like the effigy of a knight on a tomb, and he says he wishes he was. He seems to mean that he wishes he was dead, and Amy tells him that's ridiculous. Laurie softens a little and tells Amy he's OK. Amy is relieved - she was worried he might have been gambling, or taken a mistress. Amy tells Laurie that they should confide their secrets to each other. He tells her to start, and she says she doesn't have any secrets. Laurie asks Amy when she is going to start on her first great artistic work. She says never - after going to Rome and seeing all the great art there, she realized that she had talent, but not genius. Now she plans to be "an ornament to society" instead. Laurie asks Amy about Fred Vaughn. Amy confesses that she isn't engaged yet, but hopes to be soon. She admits that she doesn't love Fred, but he is rich and gentlemanly and she's decided that someone in the family needs to make a good marriage. Laurie feels strangely disappointed. Amy tells Laurie that he needs to wake up and get his life together. He doesn't take her seriously and suggests that she get it together for him. She rolls up her sleeves and gives him a lecture he's not going to forget anytime soon. Amy starts her lecture by telling Laurie that she and her cousin Flo call him "Lazy Laurence." She says that she despises him, because he's rich and has every opportunity of being happy and useful, but instead he's just wasting his time and money being miserable. Laurie tries to joke around and flatter Amy, but she's serious and angry. He puts a hand across her sketchbook and pretends to promise to be good, but she points out how soft his hand is and asks if he's ashamed that he doesn't do any work or anything useful. Amy happens to mention the little ring Laurie wears that Jo gave him. He's immediately hurt and withdrawn. Amy finally figures out that Laurie has proposed to Jo and been rejected, which nobody told her. She becomes more apologetic and says that now she realizes why Laurie has changed so much. Amy tells Laurie that, if he can't make Jo love him, he should at least make her respect him by doing something meaningful with his life. Laurie starts to realize that he's being childish and sulky, and that he should do more to make his life worthwhile. Amy ends her lecture by showing Laurie the sketch she has been making of him, which she's just finished. In it, he lies in the grass with his hat over his face, a perfect image of laziness. Then she shows him another sketch that she made a long time ago of him taming a horse. The drawing isn't as good, but the contrast is clear - Laurie used to be energetic and hard working, and now he just lays around and mopes. Laurie and Amy leave Vevey and drive home in the carriage. Laurie is somewhat cold to Amy, who is saddened by this, but glad that her lecture is having an effect. Amy and Laurie say goodbye. She asks him to stay for dinner, but he says he's busy. The next morning, Amy gets a note from Laurie saying that he has gone to Paris to be with his grandfather. Amy reads it and realizes how much she will miss him.