prompt:
Chapter: V. BEING NEIGHBORLY.

                    [Illustration: Being neighborly]

"What in the world are you going to do now, Jo?" asked Meg, one snowy
afternoon, as her sister came tramping through the hall, in rubber
boots, old sack and hood, with a broom in one hand and a shovel in the
other.

"Going out for exercise," answered Jo, with a mischievous twinkle in her
eyes.

"I should think two long walks this morning would have been enough! It's
cold and dull out; and I advise you to stay, warm and dry, by the fire,
as I do," said Meg, with a shiver.

"Never take advice! Can't keep still all day, and, not being a pussycat,
I don't like to doze by the fire. I like adventures, and I'm going to
find some."

Meg went back to toast her feet and read "Ivanhoe"; and Jo began to dig
paths with great energy. The snow was light, and with her broom she soon
swept a path all round the garden, for Beth to walk in when the sun came
out; and the invalid dolls needed air. Now, the garden separated the
Marches' house from that of Mr. Laurence. Both stood in a suburb of the
city, which was still country-like, with groves and lawns, large
gardens, and quiet streets. A low hedge parted the two estates. On one
side was an old, brown house, looking rather bare and shabby, robbed of
the vines that in summer covered its walls, and the flowers which then
surrounded it. On the other side was a stately stone mansion, plainly
betokening every sort of comfort and luxury, from the big coach-house
and well-kept grounds to the conservatory and the glimpses of lovely
things one caught between the rich curtains. Yet it seemed a lonely,
lifeless sort of house; for no children frolicked on the lawn, no
motherly face ever smiled at the windows, and few people went in and
out, except the old gentleman and his grandson.

To Jo's lively fancy, this fine house seemed a kind of enchanted palace,
full of splendors and delights, which no one enjoyed. She had long
wanted to behold these hidden glories, and to know the "Laurence boy,"
who looked as if he would like to be known, if he only knew how to
begin. Since the party, she had been more eager than ever, and had
planned many ways of making friends with him; but he had not been seen
lately, and Jo began to think he had gone away, when she one day spied a
brown face at an upper window, looking wistfully down into their garden,
where Beth and Amy were snow-balling one another.

"That boy is suffering for society and fun," she said to herself. "His
grandpa does not know what's good for him, and keeps him shut up all
alone. He needs a party of jolly boys to play with, or somebody young
and lively. I've a great mind to go over and tell the old gentleman so!"

The idea amused Jo, who liked to do daring things, and was always
scandalizing Meg by her queer performances. The plan of "going over" was
not forgotten; and when the snowy afternoon came, Jo resolved to try
what could be done. She saw Mr. Laurence drive off, and then sallied out
to dig her way down to the hedge, where she paused, and took a survey.
All quiet,--curtains down at the lower windows; servants out of sight,
and nothing human visible but a curly black head leaning on a thin hand
at the upper window.

"There he is," thought Jo, "poor boy! all alone and sick this dismal
day. It's a shame! I'll toss up a snow-ball, and make him look out, and
then say a kind word to him."

Up went a handful of soft snow, and the head turned at once, showing a
face which lost its listless look in a minute, as the big eyes
brightened and the mouth began to smile. Jo nodded and laughed, and
flourished her broom as she called out,--

"How do you do? Are you sick?"

                [Illustration: Laurie opened the window]

Laurie opened the window, and croaked out as hoarsely as a raven,--

"Better, thank you. I've had a bad cold, and been shut up a week."

"I'm sorry. What do you amuse yourself with?"

"Nothing; it's as dull as tombs up here."

"Don't you read?"

"Not much; they won't let me."

"Can't somebody read to you?"

"Grandpa does, sometimes; but my books don't interest him, and I hate to
ask Brooke all the time."

"Have some one come and see you, then."

"There isn't any one I'd like to see. Boys make such a row, and my head
is weak."

"Isn't there some nice girl who'd read and amuse you? Girls are quiet,
and like to play nurse."

"Don't know any."

"You know us," began Jo, then laughed, and stopped.

"So I do! Will you come, please?" cried Laurie.

"I'm not quiet and nice; but I'll come, if mother will let me. I'll go
ask her. Shut that window, like a good boy, and wait till I come."

With that, Jo shouldered her broom and marched into the house, wondering
what they would all say to her. Laurie was in a flutter of excitement at
the idea of having company, and flew about to get ready; for, as Mrs.
March said, he was "a little gentleman," and did honor to the coming
guest by brushing his curly pate, putting on a fresh collar, and trying
to tidy up the room, which, in spite of half a dozen servants, was
anything but neat. Presently there came a loud ring, then a decided
voice, asking for "Mr. Laurie," and a surprised-looking servant came
running up to announce a young lady.

"All right, show her up, it's Miss Jo," said Laurie, going to the door
of his little parlor to meet Jo, who appeared, looking rosy and kind and
quite at her ease, with a covered dish in one hand and Beth's three
kittens in the other.

"Here I am, bag and baggage," she said briskly. "Mother sent her love,
and was glad if I could do anything for you. Meg wanted me to bring some
of her blanc-mange; she makes it very nicely, and Beth thought her cats
would be comforting. I knew you'd laugh at them, but I couldn't refuse,
she was so anxious to do something."

It so happened that Beth's funny loan was just the thing; for, in
laughing over the kits, Laurie forgot his bashfulness, and grew sociable
at once.

"That looks too pretty to eat," he said, smiling with pleasure, as Jo
uncovered the dish, and showed the blanc-mange, surrounded by a garland
of green leaves, and the scarlet flowers of Amy's pet geranium.

"It isn't anything, only they all felt kindly, and wanted to show it.
Tell the girl to put it away for your tea: it's so simple, you can eat
it; and, being soft, it will slip down without hurting your sore throat.
What a cosy room this is!"

"It might be if it was kept nice; but the maids are lazy, and I don't
know how to make them mind. It worries me, though."

"I'll right it up in two minutes; for it only needs to have the hearth
brushed, so,--and the things made straight on the mantel-piece so,--and
the books put here, and the bottles there, and your sofa turned from the
light, and the pillows plumped up a bit. Now, then, you're fixed."

And so he was; for, as she laughed and talked, Jo had whisked things
into place, and given quite a different air to the room. Laurie watched
her in respectful silence; and when she beckoned him to his sofa, he sat
down with a sigh of satisfaction, saying gratefully,--

"How kind you are! Yes, that's what it wanted. Now please take the big
chair, and let me do something to amuse my company."

"No; I came to amuse you. Shall I read aloud?" and Jo looked
affectionately toward some inviting books near by.

"Thank you; I've read all those, and if you don't mind, I'd rather
talk," answered Laurie.

"Not a bit; I'll talk all day if you'll only set me going. Beth says I
never know when to stop."

"Is Beth the rosy one, who stays at home a good deal, and sometimes goes
out with a little basket?" asked Laurie, with interest.

"Yes, that's Beth; she's my girl, and a regular good one she is, too."

"The pretty one is Meg, and the curly-haired one is Amy, I believe?"

"How did you find that out?"

Laurie colored up, but answered frankly, "Why, you see, I often hear you
calling to one another, and when I'm alone up here, I can't help looking
over at your house, you always seem to be having such good times. I beg
your pardon for being so rude, but sometimes you forget to put down the
curtain at the window where the flowers are; and when the lamps are
lighted, it's like looking at a picture to see the fire, and you all
round the table with your mother; her face is right opposite, and it
looks so sweet behind the flowers, I can't help watching it. I haven't
got any mother, you know;" and Laurie poked the fire to hide a little
twitching of the lips that he could not control.

The solitary, hungry look in his eyes went straight to Jo's warm heart.
She had been so simply taught that there was no nonsense in her head,
and at fifteen she was as innocent and frank as any child. Laurie was
sick and lonely; and, feeling how rich she was in home-love and
happiness, she gladly tried to share it with him. Her face was very
friendly and her sharp voice unusually gentle as she said,--

"We'll never draw that curtain any more, and I give you leave to look as
much as you like. I just wish, though, instead of peeping, you'd come
over and see us. Mother is so splendid, she'd do you heaps of good, and
Beth would sing to you if _I_ begged her to, and Amy would dance; Meg
and I would make you laugh over our funny stage properties, and we'd
have jolly times. Wouldn't your grandpa let you?"

"I think he would, if your mother asked him. He's very kind, though he
does not look so; and he lets me do what I like, pretty much, only he's
afraid I might be a bother to strangers," began Laurie, brightening more
and more.

"We are not strangers, we are neighbors, and you needn't think you'd be
a bother. We _want_ to know you, and I've been trying to do it this ever
so long. We haven't been here a great while, you know, but we have got
acquainted with all our neighbors but you."

"You see grandpa lives among his books, and doesn't mind much what
happens outside. Mr. Brooke, my tutor, doesn't stay here, you know, and
I have no one to go about with me, so I just stop at home and get on as
I can."

"That's bad. You ought to make an effort, and go visiting everywhere you
are asked; then you'll have plenty of friends, and pleasant places to go
to. Never mind being bashful; it won't last long if you keep going."

Laurie turned red again, but wasn't offended at being accused of
bashfulness; for there was so much good-will in Jo, it was impossible
not to take her blunt speeches as kindly as they were meant.

"Do you like your school?" asked the boy, changing the subject, after a
little pause, during which he stared at the fire, and Jo looked about
her, well pleased.

"Don't go to school; I'm a business man--girl, I mean. I go to wait on
my great-aunt, and a dear, cross old soul she is, too," answered Jo.

Laurie opened his mouth to ask another question; but remembering just in
time that it wasn't manners to make too many inquiries into people's
affairs, he shut it again, and looked uncomfortable. Jo liked his good
breeding, and didn't mind having a laugh at Aunt March, so she gave him
a lively description of the fidgety old lady, her fat poodle, the parrot
that talked Spanish, and the library where she revelled. Laurie enjoyed
that immensely; and when she told about the prim old gentleman who came
once to woo Aunt March, and, in the middle of a fine speech, how Poll
had tweaked his wig off to his great dismay, the boy lay back and
laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks, and a maid popped her head
in to see what was the matter.

                [Illustration: Poll tweaked off his wig]

"Oh! that does me no end of good. Tell on, please," he said, taking his
face out of the sofa-cushion, red and shining with merriment.

Much elated with her success, Jo did "tell on," all about their plays
and plans, their hopes and fears for father, and the most interesting
events of the little world in which the sisters lived. Then they got to
talking about books; and to Jo's delight, she found that Laurie loved
them as well as she did, and had read even more than herself.

"If you like them so much, come down and see ours. Grandpa is out, so
you needn't be afraid," said Laurie, getting up.

"I'm not afraid of anything," returned Jo, with a toss of the head.

"I don't believe you are!" exclaimed the boy, looking at her with much
admiration, though he privately thought she would have good reason to be
a trifle afraid of the old gentleman, if she met him in some of his
moods.

The atmosphere of the whole house being summer-like, Laurie led the way
from room to room, letting Jo stop to examine whatever struck her fancy;
and so at last they came to the library, where she clapped her hands,
and pranced, as she always did when especially delighted. It was lined
with books, and there were pictures and statues, and distracting little
cabinets full of coins and curiosities, and sleepy-hollow chairs, and
queer tables, and bronzes; and, best of all, a great open fireplace,
with quaint tiles all round it.

"What richness!" sighed Jo, sinking into the depth of a velvet chair,
and gazing about her with an air of intense satisfaction. "Theodore
Laurence, you ought to be the happiest boy in the world," she added
impressively.

"A fellow can't live on books," said Laurie, shaking his head, as he
perched on a table opposite.

Before he could say more, a bell rung, and Jo flew up, exclaiming with
alarm, "Mercy me! it's your grandpa!"

"Well, what if it is? You are not afraid of anything, you know,"
returned the boy, looking wicked.

"I think I am a little bit afraid of him, but I don't know why I should
be. Marmee said I might come, and I don't think you're any the worse for
it," said Jo, composing herself, though she kept her eyes on the door.

"I'm a great deal better for it, and ever so much obliged. I'm only
afraid you are very tired talking to me; it was _so_ pleasant, I
couldn't bear to stop," said Laurie gratefully.

"The doctor to see you, sir," and the maid beckoned as she spoke.

"Would you mind if I left you for a minute? I suppose I must see him,"
said Laurie.

"Don't mind me. I'm as happy as a cricket here," answered Jo.

Laurie went away, and his guest amused herself in her own way. She was
standing before a fine portrait of the old gentleman, when the door
opened again, and, without turning, she said decidedly, "I'm sure now
that I shouldn't be afraid of him, for he's got kind eyes, though his
mouth is grim, and he looks as if he had a tremendous will of his own.
He isn't as handsome as _my_ grandfather, but I like him."

"Thank you, ma'am," said a gruff voice behind her; and there, to her
great dismay, stood old Mr. Laurence.

Poor Jo blushed till she couldn't blush any redder, and her heart began
to beat uncomfortably fast as she thought what she had said. For a
minute a wild desire to run away possessed her; but that was cowardly,
and the girls would laugh at her: so she resolved to stay, and get out
of the scrape as she could. A second look showed her that the living
eyes, under the bushy gray eyebrows, were kinder even than the painted
ones; and there was a sly twinkle in them, which lessened her fear a
good deal. The gruff voice was gruffer than ever, as the old gentleman
said abruptly, after that dreadful pause, "So you're not afraid of me,
hey?"

"Not much, sir."

"And you don't think me as handsome as your grandfather?"

"Not quite, sir."

"And I've got a tremendous will, have I?"

"I only said I thought so."

"But you like me, in spite of it?"

"Yes, I do, sir."

That answer pleased the old gentleman; he gave a short laugh, shook
hands with her, and, putting his finger under her chin, turned up her
face, examined it gravely, and let it go, saying, with a nod, "You've
got your grandfather's spirit, if you haven't his face. He _was_ a fine
man, my dear; but, what is better, he was a brave and an honest one, and
I was proud to be his friend."

           [Illustration: Putting his finger under her chin]

"Thank you, sir;" and Jo was quite comfortable after that, for it suited
her exactly.

"What have you been doing to this boy of mine, hey?" was the next
question, sharply put.

"Only trying to be neighborly, sir;" and Jo told how her visit came
about.

"You think he needs cheering up a bit, do you?"

"Yes, sir; he seems a little lonely, and young folks would do him good
perhaps. We are only girls, but we should be glad to help if we could,
for we don't forget the splendid Christmas present you sent us," said Jo
eagerly.

"Tut, tut, tut! that was the boy's affair. How is the poor woman?"

"Doing nicely, sir;" and off went Jo, talking very fast, as she told all
about the Hummels, in whom her mother had interested richer friends than
they were.

"Just her father's way of doing good. I shall come and see your mother
some fine day. Tell her so. There's the tea-bell; we have it early, on
the boy's account. Come down, and go on being neighborly."

"If you'd like to have me, sir."

"Shouldn't ask you, if I didn't;" and Mr. Laurence offered her his arm
with old-fashioned courtesy.

"What _would_ Meg say to this?" thought Jo, as she was marched away,
while her eyes danced with fun as she imagined herself telling the story
at home.

"Hey! Why, what the dickens has come to the fellow?" said the old
gentleman, as Laurie came running down stairs, and brought up with a
start of surprise at the astonishing sight of Jo arm-in-arm with his
redoubtable grandfather.

"I didn't know you'd come, sir," he began, as Jo gave him a triumphant
little glance.

"That's evident, by the way you racket down stairs. Come to your tea,
sir, and behave like a gentleman;" and having pulled the boy's hair by
way of a caress, Mr. Laurence walked on, while Laurie went through a
series of comic evolutions behind their backs, which nearly produced an
explosion of laughter from Jo.

The old gentleman did not say much as he drank his four cups of tea, but
he watched the young people, who soon chatted away like old friends, and
the change in his grandson did not escape him. There was color, light,
and life in the boy's face now, vivacity in his manner, and genuine
merriment in his laugh.

"She's right; the lad _is_ lonely. I'll see what these little girls can
do for him," thought Mr. Laurence, as he looked and listened. He liked
Jo, for her odd, blunt ways suited him; and she seemed to understand the
boy almost as well as if she had been one herself.

If the Laurences had been what Jo called "prim and poky," she would not
have got on at all, for such people always made her shy and awkward; but
finding them free and easy, she was so herself, and made a good
impression. When they rose she proposed to go, but Laurie said he had
something more to show her, and took her away to the conservatory, which
had been lighted for her benefit. It seemed quite fairylike to Jo, as
she went up and down the walks, enjoying the blooming walls on either
side, the soft light, the damp sweet air, and the wonderful vines and
trees that hung above her,--while her new friend cut the finest flowers
till his hands were full; then he tied them up, saying, with the happy
look Jo liked to see, "Please give these to your mother, and tell her I
like the medicine she sent me very much."

            [Illustration: Please give these to your mother]

They found Mr. Laurence standing before the fire in the great
drawing-room, but Jo's attention was entirely absorbed by a grand piano,
which stood open.

"Do you play?" she asked, turning to Laurie with a respectful
expression.

"Sometimes," he answered modestly.

"Please do now. I want to hear it, so I can tell Beth."

"Won't you first?"

"Don't know how; too stupid to learn, but I love music dearly."

So Laurie played, and Jo listened, with her nose luxuriously buried in
heliotrope and tea-roses. Her respect and regard for the "Laurence boy"
increased very much, for he played remarkably well, and didn't put on
any airs. She wished Beth could hear him, but she did not say so; only
praised him till he was quite abashed, and his grandfather came to the
rescue. "That will do, that will do, young lady. Too many sugar-plums
are not good for him. His music isn't bad, but I hope he will do as well
in more important things. Going? Well, I'm much obliged to you, and I
hope you'll come again. My respects to your mother. Good-night, Doctor
Jo."

He shook hands kindly, but looked as if something did not please him.
When they got into the hall, Jo asked Laurie if she had said anything
amiss. He shook his head.

"No, it was me; he doesn't like to hear me play."

"Why not?"

"I'll tell you some day. John is going home with you, as I can't."

"No need of that; I am not a young lady, and it's only a step. Take care
of yourself, won't you?"

"Yes; but you will come again, I hope?"

"If you promise to come and see us after you are well."

"I will."

"Good-night, Laurie!"

"Good-night, Jo, good-night!"

When all the afternoon's adventures had been told, the family felt
inclined to go visiting in a body, for each found something very
attractive in the big house on the other side of the hedge. Mrs. March
wanted to talk of her father with the old man who had not forgotten him;
Meg longed to walk in the conservatory; Beth sighed for the grand piano;
and Amy was eager to see the fine pictures and statues.

"Mother, why didn't Mr. Laurence like to have Laurie play?" asked Jo,
who was of an inquiring disposition.

"I am not sure, but I think it was because his son, Laurie's father,
married an Italian lady, a musician, which displeased the old man, who
is very proud. The lady was good and lovely and accomplished, but he did
not like her, and never saw his son after he married. They both died
when Laurie was a little child, and then his grandfather took him home.
I fancy the boy, who was born in Italy, is not very strong, and the old
man is afraid of losing him, which makes him so careful. Laurie comes
naturally by his love of music, for he is like his mother, and I dare
say his grandfather fears that he may want to be a musician; at any
rate, his skill reminds him of the woman he did not like, and so he
'glowered,' as Jo said."

"Dear me, how romantic!" exclaimed Meg.

"How silly!" said Jo. "Let him be a musician, if he wants to, and not
plague his life out sending him to college, when he hates to go."

"That's why he has such handsome black eyes and pretty manners, I
suppose. Italians are always nice," said Meg, who was a little
sentimental.

"What do you know about his eyes and his manners? You never spoke to
him, hardly," cried Jo, who was _not_ sentimental.

"I saw him at the party, and what you tell shows that he knows how to
behave. That was a nice little speech about the medicine mother sent
him."

"He meant the blanc-mange, I suppose."

"How stupid you are, child! He meant you, of course."

"Did he?" and Jo opened her eyes as if it had never occurred to her
before.

"I never saw such a girl! You don't know a compliment when you get it,"
said Meg, with the air of a young lady who knew all about the matter.

"I think they are great nonsense, and I'll thank you not to be silly,
and spoil my fun. Laurie's a nice boy, and I like him, and I won't have
any sentimental stuff about compliments and such rubbish. We'll all be
good to him, because he hasn't got any mother, and he _may_ come over
and see us, mayn't he, Marmee?"

"Yes, Jo, your little friend is very welcome, and I hope Meg will
remember that children should be children as long as they can."

"I don't call myself a child, and I'm not in my teens yet," observed
Amy. "What do you say, Beth?"

"I was thinking about our 'Pilgrim's Progress,'" answered Beth, who had
not heard a word. "How we got out of the Slough and through the Wicket
Gate by resolving to be good, and up the steep hill by trying; and that
maybe the house over there, full of splendid things, is going to be our
Palace Beautiful."

"We have got to get by the lions, first," said Jo, as if she rather
liked the prospect.

                       [Illustration: Tail-piece]

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

completion: Being Neighborly One day Jo, intent on getting to know Laurie, throws a snowball at Laurie's window. She learns that he has had a bad cold and is bored. He invites her over, and the girls all send gifts with Jo, including Beth's cats, which make Laurie laugh and forget his shyness. Jo learns that Laurie, in his loneliness, often watches their family's warm and loving activities, and she invites him to come visit. Jo tells stories about her family, and Laurie shows Jo their remarkable library, where she waits when Laurie goes to see the doctor. Looking at a portrait of Mr. Laurence, Jo muses to herself that he looks kind, but strong-willed, and that she should not be afraid of him. Jo is startled by Mr. Laurence, who had quietly come in the room and heard all she said. He compliments Jo's grandfather, whom he knew well, and Jo remarks that she thinks Laurie needs more company. Over tea, seeing Jo and Laurie get along, Mr. Laurence comes to agree that Laurie should spend more time with the March family. After playing the piano for Jo, which upsets Mr. Laurence, Laurie sends her away with thanks for the present her mother sent and promises to visit soon. Jo arrives home and describes the luxurious house and its inhabitants to her family. She learns from Marmee that Mr. Laurence's son married an Italian musician, despite his disapproval. When Laurie's parents died Mr. Laurence adopted him, but Laurie's talent for music reminds Mr. Laurence of his son, and makes him fear losing Laurie. Meg compliments Laurie's manners. Jo hopes that they will all be great friends, and Mrs. March agrees. Beth remarks that, just as in Pilgrim's Progress, they have found a Palace Beautiful - but first they must make it past the lions


prompt:
Chapter: VI. BETH FINDS THE PALACE BEAUTIFUL.

The big house did prove a Palace Beautiful, though it took some time for
all to get in, and Beth found it very hard to pass the lions. Old Mr.
Laurence was the biggest one; but after he had called, said something
funny or kind to each one of the girls, and talked over old times with
their mother, nobody felt much afraid of him, except timid Beth. The
other lion was the fact that they were poor and Laurie rich; for this
made them shy of accepting favors which they could not return. But,
after a while, they found that he considered them the benefactors, and
could not do enough to show how grateful he was for Mrs. March's
motherly welcome, their cheerful society, and the comfort he took in
that humble home of theirs. So they soon forgot their pride, and
interchanged kindnesses without stopping to think which was the greater.

All sorts of pleasant things happened about that time; for the new
friendship flourished like grass in spring. Every one liked Laurie, and
he privately informed his tutor that "the Marches were regularly
splendid girls." With the delightful enthusiasm of youth, they took the
solitary boy into their midst, and made much of him, and he found
something very charming in the innocent companionship of these
simple-hearted girls. Never having known mother or sisters, he was quick
to feel the influences they brought about him; and their busy, lively
ways made him ashamed of the indolent life he led. He was tired of
books, and found people so interesting now that Mr. Brooke was obliged
to make very unsatisfactory reports; for Laurie was always playing
truant, and running over to the Marches.

"Never mind; let him take a holiday, and make it up afterwards," said
the old gentleman. "The good lady next door says he is studying too
hard, and needs young society, amusement, and exercise. I suspect she is
right, and that I've been coddling the fellow as if I'd been his
grandmother. Let him do what he likes, as long as he is happy. He can't
get into mischief in that little nunnery over there; and Mrs. March is
doing more for him than we can."

What good times they had, to be sure! Such plays and tableaux, such
sleigh-rides and skating frolics, such pleasant evenings in the old
parlor, and now and then such gay little parties at the great house. Meg
could walk in the conservatory whenever she liked, and revel in
bouquets; Jo browsed over the new library voraciously, and convulsed the
old gentleman with her criticisms; Amy copied pictures, and enjoyed
beauty to her heart's content; and Laurie played "lord of the manor" in
the most delightful style.

But Beth, though yearning for the grand piano, could not pluck up
courage to go to the "Mansion of Bliss," as Meg called it. She went once
with Jo; but the old gentleman, not being aware of her infirmity, stared
at her so hard from under his heavy eyebrows, and said "Hey!" so loud,
that he frightened her so much her "feet chattered on the floor," she
told her mother; and she ran away, declaring she would never go there
any more, not even for the dear piano. No persuasions or enticements
could overcome her fear, till, the fact coming to Mr. Laurence's ear in
some mysterious way, he set about mending matters. During one of the
brief calls he made, he artfully led the conversation to music, and
talked away about great singers whom he had seen, fine organs he had
heard, and told such charming anecdotes that Beth found it impossible to
stay in her distant corner, but crept nearer and nearer, as if
fascinated. At the back of his chair she stopped, and stood listening,
with her great eyes wide open, and her cheeks red with the excitement of
this unusual performance. Taking no more notice of her than if she had
been a fly, Mr. Laurence talked on about Laurie's lessons and teachers;
and presently, as if the idea had just occurred to him, he said to Mrs.
March,--

"The boy neglects his music now, and I'm glad of it, for he was getting
too fond of it. But the piano suffers for want of use. Wouldn't some of
your girls like to run over, and practise on it now and then, just to
keep it in tune, you know, ma'am?"

Beth took a step forward, and pressed her hands tightly together to keep
from clapping them, for this was an irresistible temptation; and the
thought of practising on that splendid instrument quite took her breath
away. Before Mrs. March could reply, Mr. Laurence went on with an odd
little nod and smile,--

"They needn't see or speak to any one, but run in at any time; for I'm
shut up in my study at the other end of the house, Laurie is out a great
deal, and the servants are never near the drawing-room after nine
o'clock."

Here he rose, as if going, and Beth made up her mind to speak, for that
last arrangement left nothing to be desired. "Please tell the young
ladies what I say; and if they don't care to come, why, never mind."
Here a little hand slipped into his, and Beth looked up at him with a
face full of gratitude, as she said, in her earnest yet timid way,--

"O sir, they do care, very, very much!"

             [Illustration: O sir, they do care very much]

"Are you the musical girl?" he asked, without any startling "Hey!" as he
looked down at her very kindly.

"I'm Beth. I love it dearly, and I'll come, if you are quite sure nobody
will hear me--and be disturbed," she added, fearing to be rude, and
trembling at her own boldness as she spoke.

"Not a soul, my dear. The house is empty half the day; so come, and drum
away as much as you like, and I shall be obliged to you."

"How kind you are, sir!"

Beth blushed like a rose under the friendly look he wore; but she was
not frightened now, and gave the big hand a grateful squeeze, because
she had no words to thank him for the precious gift he had given her.
The old gentleman softly stroked the hair off her forehead, and,
stooping down, he kissed her, saying, in a tone few people ever heard,--

"I had a little girl once, with eyes like these. God bless you, my dear!
Good day, madam;" and away he went, in a great hurry.

Beth had a rapture with her mother, and then rushed up to impart the
glorious news to her family of invalids, as the girls were not at home.
How blithely she sung that evening, and how they all laughed at her,
because she woke Amy in the night by playing the piano on her face in
her sleep. Next day, having seen both the old and young gentleman out of
the house, Beth, after two or three retreats, fairly got in at the
side-door, and made her way, as noiselessly as any mouse, to the
drawing-room, where her idol stood. Quite by accident, of course, some
pretty, easy music lay on the piano; and, with trembling fingers, and
frequent stops to listen and look about, Beth at last touched the great
instrument, and straightway forgot her fear, herself, and everything
else but the unspeakable delight which the music gave her, for it was
like the voice of a beloved friend.

She stayed till Hannah came to take her home to dinner; but she had no
appetite, and could only sit and smile upon every one in a general state
of beatitude.

After that, the little brown hood slipped through the hedge nearly every
day, and the great drawing-room was haunted by a tuneful spirit that
came and went unseen. She never knew that Mr. Laurence often opened his
study-door to hear the old-fashioned airs he liked; she never saw Laurie
mount guard in the hall to warn the servants away; she never suspected
that the exercise-books and new songs which she found in the rack were
put there for her especial benefit; and when he talked to her about
music at home, she only thought how kind he was to tell things that
helped her so much. So she enjoyed herself heartily, and found, what
isn't always the case, that her granted wish was all she had hoped.
Perhaps it was because she was so grateful for this blessing that a
greater was given her; at any rate, she deserved both.

        [Illustration: Mr. Laurence often opened his study door]

"Mother, I'm going to work Mr. Laurence a pair of slippers. He is so
kind to me, I must thank him, and I don't know any other way. Can I do
it?" asked Beth, a few weeks after that eventful call of his.

"Yes, dear. It will please him very much, and be a nice way of thanking
him. The girls will help you about them, and I will pay for the making
up," replied Mrs. March, who took peculiar pleasure in granting Beth's
requests, because she so seldom asked anything for herself.

After many serious discussions with Meg and Jo, the pattern was chosen,
the materials bought, and the slippers begun. A cluster of grave yet
cheerful pansies, on a deeper purple ground, was pronounced very
appropriate and pretty; and Beth worked away early and late, with
occasional lifts over hard parts. She was a nimble little needle-woman,
and they were finished before any one got tired of them. Then she wrote
a very short, simple note, and, with Laurie's help, got them smuggled on
to the study-table one morning before the old gentleman was up.

When this excitement was over, Beth waited to see what would happen. All
that day passed, and a part of the next, before any acknowledgment
arrived, and she was beginning to fear she had offended her crotchety
friend. On the afternoon of the second day, she went out to do an
errand, and give poor Joanna, the invalid doll, her daily exercise. As
she came up the street, on her return, she saw three, yes, four, heads
popping in and out of the parlor windows, and the moment they saw her,
several hands were waved, and several joyful voices screamed,--

"Here's a letter from the old gentleman! Come quick, and read it!"

"O Beth, he's sent you--" began Amy, gesticulating with unseemly energy;
but she got no further, for Jo quenched her by slamming down the window.

Beth hurried on in a flutter of suspense. At the door, her sisters
seized and bore her to the parlor in a triumphal procession, all
pointing, and all saying at once, "Look there! look there!" Beth did
look, and turned pale with delight and surprise; for there stood a
little cabinet-piano, with a letter lying on the glossy lid, directed,
like a sign-board, to "Miss Elizabeth March."

"For me?" gasped Beth, holding on to Jo, and feeling as if she should
tumble down, it was such an overwhelming thing altogether.

"Yes; all for you, my precious! Isn't it splendid of him? Don't you
think he's the dearest old man in the world? Here's the key in the
letter. We didn't open it, but we are dying to know what he says," cried
Jo, hugging her sister, and offering the note.

"You read it! I can't, I feel so queer! Oh, it is too lovely!" and Beth
hid her face in Jo's apron, quite upset by her present.

Jo opened the paper, and began to laugh, for the first words she saw
were,--

    "MISS MARCH:

        "_Dear Madam_,--"

"How nice it sounds! I wish some one would write to me so!" said Amy,
who thought the old-fashioned address very elegant.

    "'I have had many pairs of slippers in my life, but I never had
    any that suited me so well as yours,'" continued Jo.
    "'Heart's-ease is my favorite flower, and these will always
    remind me of the gentle giver. I like to pay my debts; so I
    know you will allow "the old gentleman" to send you something
    which once belonged to the little granddaughter he lost. With
    hearty thanks and best wishes, I remain,

    "'Your grateful friend and humble servant,

                                        "'JAMES LAURENCE.'"

"There, Beth, that's an honor to be proud of, I'm sure! Laurie told me
how fond Mr. Laurence used to be of the child who died, and how he kept
all her little things carefully. Just think, he's given you her piano.
That comes of having big blue eyes and loving music," said Jo, trying to
soothe Beth, who trembled, and looked more excited than she had ever
been before.

"See the cunning brackets to hold candles, and the nice green silk,
puckered up, with a gold rose in the middle, and the pretty rack and
stool, all complete," added Meg, opening the instrument and displaying
its beauties.

"'Your humble servant, James Laurence'; only think of his writing that
to you. I'll tell the girls. They'll think it's splendid," said Amy,
much impressed by the note.

"Try it, honey. Let's hear the sound of the baby-pianny," said Hannah,
who always took a share in the family joys and sorrows.

So Beth tried it; and every one pronounced it the most remarkable piano
ever heard. It had evidently been newly tuned and put in apple-pie
order; but, perfect as it was, I think the real charm of it lay in the
happiest of all happy faces which leaned over it, as Beth lovingly
touched the beautiful black and white keys and pressed the bright
pedals.

"You'll have to go and thank him," said Jo, by way of a joke; for the
idea of the child's really going never entered her head.

"Yes, I mean to. I guess I'll go now, before I get frightened thinking
about it." And, to the utter amazement of the assembled family, Beth
walked deliberately down the garden, through the hedge, and in at the
Laurences' door.

"Well, I wish I may die if it ain't the queerest thing I ever see! The
pianny has turned her head! She'd never have gone in her right mind,"
cried Hannah, staring after her, while the girls were rendered quite
speechless by the miracle.

They would have been still more amazed if they had seen what Beth did
afterward. If you will believe me, she went and knocked at the
study-door before she gave herself time to think; and when a gruff voice
called out, "Come in!" she did go in, right up to Mr. Laurence, who
looked quite taken aback, and held out her hand, saying, with only a
small quaver in her voice, "I came to thank you, sir, for--" But she
didn't finish; for he looked so friendly that she forgot her speech,
and, only remembering that he had lost the little girl he loved, she put
both arms round his neck, and kissed him.

    [Illustration: She put both arms around his neck and kissed him]

If the roof of the house had suddenly flown off, the old gentleman
wouldn't have been more astonished; but he liked it,--oh, dear, yes, he
liked it amazingly!--and was so touched and pleased by that confiding
little kiss that all his crustiness vanished; and he just set her on his
knee, and laid his wrinkled cheek against her rosy one, feeling as if he
had got his own little granddaughter back again. Beth ceased to fear him
from that moment, and sat there talking to him as cosily as if she had
known him all her life; for love casts out fear, and gratitude can
conquer pride. When she went home, he walked with her to her own gate,
shook hands cordially, and touched his hat as he marched back again,
looking very stately and erect, like a handsome, soldierly old
gentleman, as he was.

When the girls saw that performance, Jo began to dance a jig, by way of
expressing her satisfaction; Amy nearly fell out of the window in her
surprise; and Meg exclaimed, with uplifted hands, "Well, I do believe
the world is coming to an end!"

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

completion: Beth Finds the Palace Beautiful One of the lions to get past before the Marches can enjoy the Palace Beautiful is their awkwardness because they are poor and the Laurences are wealthy. However, they soon learn that Laurie feels himself the benefactor, and they accept the mutual benefit. The March family's philosophy and hard work influences Laurie, and everyone enjoys the Laurence home except Beth, who cannot overcome her fear of the gruff Mr. Laurence. Mr. Laurence hears of this, and asks Mrs. March, so Beth can hear, if one of the girls could come over and play the piano to keep it in tune. Beth approaches him, and Mr. Laurence kindly tells her she reminds him of his own granddaughter. The next day Beth gathers her courage to go to the big house, where she finds easy music on the piano, and then returns daily. To thank Mr. Laurence, Beth makes him a pair of slippers. In return, Mr. Laurence surprises Beth by giving her the cabinet piano that his granddaughter used to play. Beth is so moved that she decides to go thank Mr. Laurence in person, before she becomes too afraid. Mr. Laurence pulls her onto his knee and, remembering his lost granddaughter, Beth kisses him, and the two become fast friends


prompt:
Chapter: VII. AMY'S VALLEY OF HUMILIATION.

                      [Illustration: The Cyclops]

"That boy is a perfect Cyclops, isn't he?" said Amy, one day, as Laurie
clattered by on horseback, with a flourish of his whip as he passed.

"How dare you say so, when he's got both his eyes? and very handsome
ones they are, too," cried Jo, who resented any slighting remarks about
her friend.

"I didn't say anything about his eyes, and I don't see why you need fire
up when I admire his riding."

"Oh, my goodness! that little goose means a centaur, and she called him
a Cyclops," exclaimed Jo, with a burst of laughter.

"You needn't be so rude; it's only a 'lapse of lingy,' as Mr. Davis
says," retorted Amy, finishing Jo with her Latin. "I just wish I had a
little of the money Laurie spends on that horse," she added, as if to
herself, yet hoping her sisters would hear.

"Why?" asked Meg kindly, for Jo had gone off in another laugh at Amy's
second blunder.

"I need it so much; I'm dreadfully in debt, and it won't be my turn to
have the rag-money for a month."

"In debt, Amy? What do you mean?" and Meg looked sober.

"Why, I owe at least a dozen pickled limes, and I can't pay them, you
know, till I have money, for Marmee forbade my having anything charged
at the shop."

"Tell me all about it. Are limes the fashion now? It used to be pricking
bits of rubber to make balls;" and Meg tried to keep her countenance,
Amy looked so grave and important.

"Why, you see, the girls are always buying them, and unless you want to
be thought mean, you must do it, too. It's nothing but limes now, for
every one is sucking them in their desks in school-time, and trading
them off for pencils, bead-rings, paper dolls, or something else, at
recess. If one girl likes another, she gives her a lime; if she's mad
with her, she eats one before her face, and don't offer even a suck.
They treat by turns; and I've had ever so many, but haven't returned
them; and I ought, for they are debts of honor, you know."

"How much will pay them off, and restore your credit?" asked Meg, taking
out her purse.

"A quarter would more than do it, and leave a few cents over for a treat
for you. Don't you like limes?"

"Not much; you may have my share. Here's the money. Make it last as long
as you can, for it isn't very plenty, you know."

"Oh, thank you! It must be so nice to have pocket-money! I'll have a
grand feast, for I haven't tasted a lime this week. I felt delicate
about taking any, as I couldn't return them, and I'm actually suffering
for one."

Next day Amy was rather late at school; but could not resist the
temptation of displaying, with pardonable pride, a moist brown-paper
parcel, before she consigned it to the inmost recesses of her desk.
During the next few minutes the rumor that Amy March had got twenty-four
delicious limes (she ate one on the way), and was going to treat,
circulated through her "set," and the attentions of her friends became
quite overwhelming. Katy Brown invited her to her next party on the
spot; Mary Kingsley insisted on lending her her watch till recess; and
Jenny Snow, a satirical young lady, who had basely twitted Amy upon her
limeless state, promptly buried the hatchet, and offered to furnish
answers to certain appalling sums. But Amy had not forgotten Miss Snow's
cutting remarks about "some persons whose noses were not too flat to
smell other people's limes, and stuck-up people, who were not too proud
to ask for them;" and she instantly crushed "that Snow girl's" hopes by
the withering telegram, "You needn't be so polite all of a sudden, for
you won't get any."

A distinguished personage happened to visit the school that morning, and
Amy's beautifully drawn maps received praise, which honor to her foe
rankled in the soul of Miss Snow, and caused Miss March to assume the
airs of a studious young peacock. But, alas, alas! pride goes before a
fall, and the revengeful Snow turned the tables with disastrous success.
No sooner had the guest paid the usual stale compliments, and bowed
himself out, than Jenny, under pretence of asking an important question,
informed Mr. Davis, the teacher, that Amy March had pickled limes in her
desk.

Now Mr. Davis had declared limes a contraband article, and solemnly
vowed to publicly ferrule the first person who was found breaking the
law. This much-enduring man had succeeded in banishing chewing-gum after
a long and stormy war, had made a bonfire of the confiscated novels and
newspapers, had suppressed a private post-office, had forbidden
distortions of the face, nicknames, and caricatures, and done all that
one man could do to keep half a hundred rebellious girls in order. Boys
are trying enough to human patience, goodness knows! but girls are
infinitely more so, especially to nervous gentlemen, with tyrannical
tempers, and no more talent for teaching than Dr. Blimber. Mr. Davis
knew any quantity of Greek, Latin, Algebra, and ologies of all sorts, so
he was called a fine teacher; and manners, morals, feelings, and
examples were not considered of any particular importance. It was a most
unfortunate moment for denouncing Amy, and Jenny knew it. Mr. Davis had
evidently taken his coffee too strong that morning; there was an east
wind, which always affected his neuralgia; and his pupils had not done
him the credit which he felt he deserved: therefore, to use the
expressive, if not elegant, language of a school-girl, "he was as
nervous as a witch and as cross as a bear." The word "limes" was like
fire to powder; his yellow face flushed, and he rapped on his desk with
an energy which made Jenny skip to her seat with unusual rapidity.

"Young ladies, attention, if you please!"

At the stern order the buzz ceased, and fifty pairs of blue, black,
gray, and brown eyes were obediently fixed upon his awful countenance.

"Miss March, come to the desk."

Amy rose to comply with outward composure, but a secret fear oppressed
her, for the limes weighed upon her conscience.

"Bring with you the limes you have in your desk," was the unexpected
command which arrested her before she got out of her seat.

"Don't take all," whispered her neighbor, a young lady of great presence
of mind.

Amy hastily shook out half a dozen, and laid the rest down before Mr.
Davis, feeling that any man possessing a human heart would relent when
that delicious perfume met his nose. Unfortunately, Mr. Davis
particularly detested the odor of the fashionable pickle, and disgust
added to his wrath.

"Is that all?"

"Not quite," stammered Amy.

"Bring the rest immediately."

With a despairing glance at her set, she obeyed.

"You are sure there are no more?"

"I never lie, sir."

"So I see. Now take these disgusting things two by two, and throw them
out of the window."

There was a simultaneous sigh, which created quite a little gust, as the
last hope fled, and the treat was ravished from their longing lips.
Scarlet with shame and anger, Amy went to and fro six dreadful times;
and as each doomed couple--looking oh! so plump and juicy--fell from her
reluctant hands, a shout from the street completed the anguish of the
girls, for it told them that their feast was being exulted over by the
little Irish children, who were their sworn foes. This--this was too
much; all flashed indignant or appealing glances at the inexorable
Davis, and one passionate lime-lover burst into tears.

As Amy returned from her last trip, Mr. Davis gave a portentous "Hem!"
and said, in his most impressive manner,--

"Young ladies, you remember what I said to you a week ago. I am sorry
this has happened, but I never allow my rules to be infringed, and I
_never_ break my word. Miss March, hold out your hand."

Amy started, and put both hands behind her, turning on him an imploring
look which pleaded for her better than the words she could not utter.
She was rather a favorite with "old Davis," as, of course, he was
called, and it's my private belief that he _would_ have broken his word
if the indignation of one irrepressible young lady had not found vent in
a hiss. That hiss, faint as it was, irritated the irascible gentleman,
and sealed the culprit's fate.

"Your hand, Miss March!" was the only answer her mute appeal received;
and, too proud to cry or beseech, Amy set her teeth, threw back her
head defiantly, and bore without flinching several tingling blows on her
little palm. They were neither many nor heavy, but that made no
difference to her. For the first time in her life she had been struck;
and the disgrace, in her eyes, was as deep as if he had knocked her
down.

   [Illustration: Amy bore without flinching several tingling blows]

"You will now stand on the platform till recess," said Mr. Davis,
resolved to do the thing thoroughly, since he had begun.

That was dreadful. It would have been bad enough to go to her seat, and
see the pitying faces of her friends, or the satisfied ones of her few
enemies; but to face the whole school, with that shame fresh upon her,
seemed impossible, and for a second she felt as if she could only drop
down where she stood, and break her heart with crying. A bitter sense of
wrong, and the thought of Jenny Snow, helped her to bear it; and, taking
the ignominious place, she fixed her eyes on the stove-funnel above what
now seemed a sea of faces, and stood there, so motionless and white that
the girls found it very hard to study, with that pathetic figure before
them.

During the fifteen minutes that followed, the proud and sensitive little
girl suffered a shame and pain which she never forgot. To others it
might seem a ludicrous or trivial affair, but to her it was a hard
experience; for during the twelve years of her life she had been
governed by love alone, and a blow of that sort had never touched her
before. The smart of her hand and the ache of her heart were forgotten
in the sting of the thought,--

"I shall have to tell at home, and they will be so disappointed in me!"

The fifteen minutes seemed an hour; but they came to an end at last, and
the word "Recess!" had never seemed so welcome to her before.

"You can go, Miss March," said Mr. Davis, looking, as he felt,
uncomfortable.

He did not soon forget the reproachful glance Amy gave him, as she went,
without a word to any one, straight into the ante-room, snatched her
things, and left the place "forever," as she passionately declared to
herself. She was in a sad state when she got home; and when the older
girls arrived, some time later, an indignation meeting was held at
once. Mrs. March did not say much, but looked disturbed, and comforted
her afflicted little daughter in her tenderest manner. Meg bathed the
insulted hand with glycerine and tears; Beth felt that even her beloved
kittens would fail as a balm for griefs like this; Jo wrathfully
proposed that Mr. Davis be arrested without delay; and Hannah shook her
fist at the "villain," and pounded potatoes for dinner as if she had him
under her pestle.

No notice was taken of Amy's flight, except by her mates; but the
sharp-eyed demoiselles discovered that Mr. Davis was quite benignant in
the afternoon, also unusually nervous. Just before school closed, Jo
appeared, wearing a grim expression, as she stalked up to the desk, and
delivered a letter from her mother; then collected Amy's property, and
departed, carefully scraping the mud from her boots on the door-mat, as
if she shook the dust of the place off her feet.

"Yes, you can have a vacation from school, but I want you to study a
little every day, with Beth," said Mrs. March, that evening. "I don't
approve of corporal punishment, especially for girls. I dislike Mr.
Davis's manner of teaching, and don't think the girls you associate with
are doing you any good, so I shall ask your father's advice before I
send you anywhere else."

"That's good! I wish all the girls would leave, and spoil his old
school. It's perfectly maddening to think of those lovely limes," sighed
Amy, with the air of a martyr.

"I am not sorry you lost them, for you broke the rules, and deserved
some punishment for disobedience," was the severe reply, which rather
disappointed the young lady, who expected nothing but sympathy.

"Do you mean you are glad I was disgraced before the whole school?"
cried Amy.

"I should not have chosen that way of mending a fault," replied her
mother; "but I'm not sure that it won't do you more good than a milder
method. You are getting to be rather conceited, my dear, and it is quite
time you set about correcting it. You have a good many little gifts and
virtues, but there is no need of parading them, for conceit spoils the
finest genius. There is not much danger that real talent or goodness
will be overlooked long; even if it is, the consciousness of possessing
and using it well should satisfy one, and the great charm of all power
is modesty."

"So it is!" cried Laurie, who was playing chess in a corner with Jo. "I
knew a girl, once, who had a really remarkable talent for music, and she
didn't know it; never guessed what sweet little things she composed when
she was alone, and wouldn't have believed it if any one had told her."

"I wish I'd known that nice girl; maybe she would have helped me, I'm so
stupid," said Beth, who stood beside him, listening eagerly.

"You do know her, and she helps you better than any one else could,"
answered Laurie, looking at her with such mischievous meaning in his
merry black eyes, that Beth suddenly turned very red, and hid her face
in the sofa-cushion, quite overcome by such an unexpected discovery.

                    [Illustration: You do know her]

Jo let Laurie win the game, to pay for that praise of her Beth, who
could not be prevailed upon to play for them after her compliment. So
Laurie did his best, and sung delightfully, being in a particularly
lively humor, for to the Marches he seldom showed the moody side of his
character. When he was gone, Amy, who had been pensive all the evening,
said suddenly, as if busy over some new idea,--

"Is Laurie an accomplished boy?"

"Yes; he has had an excellent education, and has much talent; he will
make a fine man, if not spoilt by petting," replied her mother.

"And he isn't conceited, is he?" asked Amy.

"Not in the least; that is why he is so charming, and we all like him so
much."

"I see; it's nice to have accomplishments, and be elegant; but not to
show off, or get perked up," said Amy thoughtfully.

"These things are always seen and felt in a person's manner and
conversation, if modestly used; but it is not necessary to display
them," said Mrs. March.

"Any more than it's proper to wear all your bonnets and gowns and
ribbons at once, that folks may know you've got them," added Jo; and the
lecture ended in a laugh.

              [Illustration: Girls, where are you going?]

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

completion: Amy's Valley of Humiliation Amy sighs for money, wishing she could buy pickled limes to treat her friends at school. Meg gives her a quarter, and Amy brings the limes to school. One unkind girl reports the limes to Mr. Davis, the teacher. Mr. Davis makes Amy throw the limes into the snow, then strikes her palm and makes her stand in front of the class until lunch. For Amy, the experience is deeply humiliating, since Amy's parents had never hit her. At recess, Amy takes her possessions and goes straight home. Marmee withdraws Amy from the school, but she lectures Amy on breaking the rules, and encourages her to be more modest. Amy, upon reflection, realizes that Laurie is accomplished, but not conceited, so people enjoy his natural charm


prompt:
Chapter: VIII. JO MEETS APOLLYON.

"Girls, where are you going?" asked Amy, coming into their room one
Saturday afternoon, and finding them getting ready to go out, with an
air of secrecy which excited her curiosity.

"Never mind; little girls shouldn't ask questions," returned Jo sharply.

Now if there _is_ anything mortifying to our feelings, when we are
young, it is to be told that; and to be bidden to "run away, dear," is
still more trying to us. Amy bridled up at this insult, and determined
to find out the secret, if she teased for an hour. Turning to Meg, who
never refused her anything very long, she said coaxingly, "Do tell me! I
should think you might let me go, too; for Beth is fussing over her
piano, and I haven't got anything to do, and am _so_ lonely."

"I can't, dear, because you aren't invited," began Meg; but Jo broke in
impatiently, "Now, Meg, be quiet, or you will spoil it all. You can't
go, Amy; so don't be a baby, and whine about it."

"You are going somewhere with Laurie, I know you are; you were
whispering and laughing together, on the sofa, last night, and you
stopped when I came in. Aren't you going with him?"

"Yes, we are; now do be still, and stop bothering."

Amy held her tongue, but used her eyes, and saw Meg slip a fan into her
pocket.

"I know! I know! you're going to the theatre to see the 'Seven
Castles!'" she cried; adding resolutely, "and I _shall_ go, for mother
said I might see it; and I've got my rag-money, and it was mean not to
tell me in time."

"Just listen to me a minute, and be a good child," said Meg soothingly.
"Mother doesn't wish you to go this week, because your eyes are not well
enough yet to bear the light of this fairy piece. Next week you can go
with Beth and Hannah, and have a nice time."

"I don't like that half as well as going with you and Laurie. Please let
me; I've been sick with this cold so long, and shut up, I'm dying for
some fun. Do, Meg! I'll be ever so good," pleaded Amy, looking as
pathetic as she could.

"Suppose we take her. I don't believe mother would mind, if we bundle
her up well," began Meg.

"If _she_ goes _I_ sha'n't; and if I don't, Laurie won't like it; and it
will be very rude, after he invited only us, to go and drag in Amy. I
should think she'd hate to poke herself where she isn't wanted," said Jo
crossly, for she disliked the trouble of overseeing a fidgety child,
when she wanted to enjoy herself.

Her tone and manner angered Amy, who began to put her boots on, saying,
in her most aggravating way, "I _shall_ go; Meg says I may; and if I pay
for myself, Laurie hasn't anything to do with it."

"You can't sit with us, for our seats are reserved, and you mustn't sit
alone; so Laurie will give you his place, and that will spoil our
pleasure; or he'll get another seat for you, and that isn't proper, when
you weren't asked. You sha'n't stir a step; so you may just stay where
you are," scolded Jo, crosser than ever, having just pricked her finger
in her hurry.

Sitting on the floor, with one boot on, Amy began to cry, and Meg to
reason with her, when Laurie called from below, and the two girls
hurried down, leaving their sister wailing; for now and then she forgot
her grown-up ways, and acted like a spoilt child. Just as the party was
setting out, Amy called over the banisters, in a threatening tone,
"You'll be sorry for this, Jo March; see if you ain't."

"Fiddlesticks!" returned Jo, slamming the door.

They had a charming time, for "The Seven Castles of the Diamond Lake"
were as brilliant and wonderful as heart could wish. But, in spite of
the comical red imps, sparkling elves, and gorgeous princes and
princesses, Jo's pleasure had a drop of bitterness in it; the fairy
queen's yellow curls reminded her of Amy; and between the acts she
amused herself with wondering what her sister would do to make her
"sorry for it." She and Amy had had many lively skirmishes in the course
of their lives, for both had quick tempers, and were apt to be violent
when fairly roused. Amy teased Jo, and Jo irritated Amy, and
semi-occasional explosions occurred, of which both were much ashamed
afterward. Although the oldest, Jo had the least self-control, and had
hard times trying to curb the fiery spirit which was continually getting
her into trouble; her anger never lasted long, and, having humbly
confessed her fault, she sincerely repented, and tried to do better. Her
sisters used to say that they rather liked to get Jo into a fury,
because she was such an angel afterward. Poor Jo tried desperately to be
good, but her bosom enemy was always ready to flame up and defeat her;
and it took years of patient effort to subdue it.

When they got home, they found Amy reading in the parlor. She assumed an
injured air as they came in; never lifted her eyes from her book, or
asked a single question. Perhaps curiosity might have conquered
resentment, if Beth had not been there to inquire, and receive a glowing
description of the play. On going up to put away her best hat, Jo's
first look was toward the bureau; for, in their last quarrel, Amy had
soothed her feelings by turning Jo's top drawer upside down on the
floor. Everything was in its place, however; and after a hasty glance
into her various closets, bags, and boxes, Jo decided that Amy had
forgiven and forgotten her wrongs.

There Jo was mistaken; for next day she made a discovery which produced
a tempest. Meg, Beth, and Amy were sitting together, late in the
afternoon, when Jo burst into the room, looking excited, and demanding
breathlessly, "Has any one taken my book?"

Meg and Beth said "No," at once, and looked surprised; Amy poked the
fire, and said nothing. Jo saw her color rise, and was down upon her in
a minute.

"Amy, you've got it?"

"No, I haven't."

"You know where it is, then?"

"No, I don't."

"That's a fib!" cried Jo, taking her by the shoulders, and looking
fierce enough to frighten a much braver child than Amy.

"It isn't. I haven't got it, don't know where it is now, and don't
care."

"You know something about it, and you'd better tell at once, or I'll
make you," and Jo gave her a slight shake.

"Scold as much as you like, you'll never see your silly old book again,"
cried Amy, getting excited in her turn.

"Why not?"

"I burnt it up."

                     [Illustration: I burnt it up]

"What! my little book I was so fond of, and worked over, and meant to
finish before father got home? Have you really burnt it?" said Jo,
turning very pale, while her eyes kindled and her hands clutched Amy
nervously.

"Yes, I did! I told you I'd make you pay for being so cross yesterday,
and I have, so--"

Amy got no farther, for Jo's hot temper mastered her, and she shook Amy
till her teeth chattered in her head; crying, in a passion of grief and
anger,--

"You wicked, wicked girl! I never can write it again, and I'll never
forgive you as long as I live."

Meg flew to rescue Amy, and Beth to pacify Jo, but Jo was quite beside
herself; and, with a parting box on her sister's ear, she rushed out of
the room up to the old sofa in the garret, and finished her fight alone.

The storm cleared up below, for Mrs. March came home, and, having heard
the story, soon brought Amy to a sense of the wrong she had done her
sister. Jo's book was the pride of her heart, and was regarded by her
family as a literary sprout of great promise. It was only half a dozen
little fairy tales, but Jo had worked over them patiently, putting her
whole heart into her work, hoping to make something good enough to
print. She had just copied them with great care, and had destroyed the
old manuscript, so that Amy's bonfire had consumed the loving work of
several years. It seemed a small loss to others, but to Jo it was a
dreadful calamity, and she felt that it never could be made up to her.
Beth mourned as for a departed kitten, and Meg refused to defend her
pet; Mrs. March looked grave and grieved, and Amy felt that no one would
love her till she had asked pardon for the act which she now regretted
more than any of them.

When the tea-bell rung, Jo appeared, looking so grim and unapproachable
that it took all Amy's courage to say meekly,--

"Please forgive me, Jo; I'm very, very sorry."

"I never shall forgive you," was Jo's stern answer; and, from that
moment, she ignored Amy entirely.

No one spoke of the great trouble,--not even Mrs. March,--for all had
learned by experience that when Jo was in that mood words were wasted;
and the wisest course was to wait till some little accident, or her own
generous nature, softened Jo's resentment, and healed the breach. It was
not a happy evening; for, though they sewed as usual, while their mother
read aloud from Bremer, Scott, or Edgeworth, something was wanting, and
the sweet home-peace was disturbed. They felt this most when
singing-time came; for Beth could only play, Jo stood dumb as a stone,
and Amy broke down, so Meg and mother sung alone. But, in spite of their
efforts to be as cheery as larks, the flute-like voices did not seem to
chord as well as usual, and all felt out of tune.

As Jo received her good-night kiss, Mrs. March whispered gently,--

"My dear, don't let the sun go down upon your anger; forgive each other,
help each other, and begin again to-morrow."

Jo wanted to lay her head down on that motherly bosom, and cry her grief
and anger all away; but tears were an unmanly weakness, and she felt so
deeply injured that she really _couldn't_ quite forgive yet. So she
winked hard, shook her head, and said, gruffly because Amy was
listening,--

"It was an abominable thing, and she don't deserve to be forgiven."

With that she marched off to bed, and there was no merry or confidential
gossip that night.

Amy was much offended that her overtures of peace had been repulsed, and
began to wish she had not humbled herself, to feel more injured than
ever, and to plume herself on her superior virtue in a way which was
particularly exasperating. Jo still looked like a thunder-cloud, and
nothing went well all day. It was bitter cold in the morning; she
dropped her precious turn-over in the gutter, Aunt March had an attack
of fidgets, Meg was pensive, Beth _would_ look grieved and wistful when
she got home, and Amy kept making remarks about people who were always
talking about being good, and yet wouldn't try, when other people set
them a virtuous example.

"Everybody is so hateful, I'll ask Laurie to go skating. He is always
kind and jolly, and will put me to rights, I know," said Jo to herself,
and off she went.

Amy heard the clash of skates, and looked out with an impatient
exclamation,--

"There! she promised I should go next time, for this is the last ice we
shall have. But it's no use to ask such a cross-patch to take me."

"Don't say that; you _were_ very naughty, and it _is_ hard to forgive
the loss of her precious little book; but I think she might do it now,
and I guess she will, if you try her at the right minute," said Meg. "Go
after them; don't say anything till Jo has got good-natured with Laurie,
then take a quiet minute, and just kiss her, or do some kind thing, and
I'm sure she'll be friends again, with all her heart."

"I'll try," said Amy, for the advice suited her; and, after a flurry to
get ready, she ran after the friends, who were just disappearing over
the hill.

It was not far to the river, but both were ready before Amy reached
them. Jo saw her coming, and turned her back; Laurie did not see, for he
was carefully skating along the shore, sounding the ice, for a warm
spell had preceded the cold snap.

"I'll go on to the first bend, and see if it's all right, before we
begin to race," Amy heard him say, as he shot away, looking like a young
Russian, in his fur-trimmed coat and cap.

Jo heard Amy panting after her run, stamping her feet and blowing her
fingers, as she tried to put her skates on; but Jo never turned, and
went slowly zigzagging down the river, taking a bitter, unhappy sort of
satisfaction in her sister's troubles. She had cherished her anger till
it grew strong, and took possession of her, as evil thoughts and
feelings always do, unless cast out at once. As Laurie turned the bend,
he shouted back,--

"Keep near the shore; it isn't safe in the middle."

Jo heard, but Amy was just struggling to her feet, and did not catch a
word. Jo glanced over her shoulder, and the little demon she was
harboring said in her ear,--

"No matter whether she heard or not, let her take care of herself."

Laurie had vanished round the bend; Jo was just at the turn, and Amy,
far behind, striking out toward the smoother ice in the middle of the
river. For a minute Jo stood still, with a strange feeling at her heart;
then she resolved to go on, but something held and turned her round,
just in time to see Amy throw up her hands and go down, with the sudden
crash of rotten ice, the splash of water, and a cry that made Jo's heart
stand still with fear. She tried to call Laurie, but her voice was gone;
she tried to rush forward, but her feet seemed to have no strength in
them; and, for a second, she could only stand motionless, staring, with
a terror-stricken face, at the little blue hood above the black water.
Something rushed swiftly by her, and Laurie's voice cried out,--

"Bring a rail; quick, quick!"

How she did it, she never knew; but for the next few minutes she worked
as if possessed, blindly obeying Laurie, who was quite self-possessed,
and, lying flat, held Amy up by his arm and hockey till Jo dragged a
rail from the fence, and together they got the child out, more
frightened than hurt.

           [Illustration: Held Amy up by his arms and hockey]

"Now then, we must walk her home as fast as we can; pile our things on
her, while I get off these confounded skates," cried Laurie, wrapping
his coat round Amy, and tugging away at the straps, which never seemed
so intricate before.

Shivering, dripping, and crying, they got Amy home; and, after an
exciting time of it, she fell asleep, rolled in blankets, before a hot
fire. During the bustle Jo had scarcely spoken; but flown about, looking
pale and wild, with her things half off, her dress torn, and her hands
cut and bruised by ice and rails, and refractory buckles. When Amy was
comfortably asleep, the house quiet, and Mrs. March sitting by the bed,
she called Jo to her, and began to bind up the hurt hands.

"Are you sure she is safe?" whispered Jo, looking remorsefully at the
golden head, which might have been swept away from her sight forever
under the treacherous ice.

"Quite safe, dear; she is not hurt, and won't even take cold, I think,
you were so sensible in covering and getting her home quickly," replied
her mother cheerfully.

"Laurie did it all; I only let her go. Mother, if she _should_ die, it
would be my fault"; and Jo dropped down beside the bed, in a passion of
penitent tears, telling all that had happened, bitterly condemning her
hardness of heart, and sobbing out her gratitude for being spared the
heavy punishment which might have come upon her.

"It's my dreadful temper! I try to cure it; I think I have, and then it
breaks out worse than ever. O mother, what shall I do? what shall I do?"
cried poor Jo, in despair.

"Watch and pray, dear; never get tired of trying; and never think it is
impossible to conquer your fault," said Mrs. March, drawing the blowzy
head to her shoulder, and kissing the wet cheek so tenderly that Jo
cried harder than ever.

"You don't know, you can't guess how bad it is! It seems as if I could
do anything when I'm in a passion; I get so savage, I could hurt any
one, and enjoy it. I'm afraid I _shall_ do something dreadful some day,
and spoil my life, and make everybody hate me. O mother, help me, do
help me!"

"I will, my child, I will. Don't cry so bitterly, but remember this day,
and resolve, with all your soul, that you will never know another like
it. Jo, dear, we all have our temptations, some far greater than yours,
and it often takes us all our lives to conquer them. You think your
temper is the worst in the world; but mine used to be just like it."

"Yours, mother? Why, you are never angry!" and, for the moment, Jo
forgot remorse in surprise.

"I've been trying to cure it for forty years, and have only succeeded in
controlling it. I am angry nearly every day of my life, Jo; but I have
learned not to show it; and I still hope to learn not to feel it, though
it may take me another forty years to do so."

The patience and the humility of the face she loved so well was a better
lesson to Jo than the wisest lecture, the sharpest reproof. She felt
comforted at once by the sympathy and confidence given her; the
knowledge that her mother had a fault like hers, and tried to mend it,
made her own easier to bear and strengthened her resolution to cure it;
though forty years seemed rather a long time to watch and pray, to a
girl of fifteen.

"Mother, are you angry when you fold your lips tight together, and go
out of the room sometimes, when Aunt March scolds, or people worry
you?" asked Jo, feeling nearer and dearer to her mother than ever
before.

"Yes, I've learned to check the hasty words that rise to my lips; and
when I feel that they mean to break out against my will, I just go away
a minute, and give myself a little shake, for being so weak and wicked,"
answered Mrs. March, with a sigh and a smile, as she smoothed and
fastened up Jo's dishevelled hair.

"How did you learn to keep still? That is what troubles me--for the
sharp words fly out before I know what I'm about; and the more I say the
worse I get, till it's a pleasure to hurt people's feelings, and say
dreadful things. Tell me how you do it, Marmee dear."

"My good mother used to help me--"

"As you do us--" interrupted Jo, with a grateful kiss.

"But I lost her when I was a little older than you are, and for years
had to struggle on alone, for I was too proud to confess my weakness to
any one else. I had a hard time, Jo, and shed a good many bitter tears
over my failures; for, in spite of my efforts, I never seemed to get on.
Then your father came, and I was so happy that I found it easy to be
good. But by and by, when I had four little daughters round me, and we
were poor, then the old trouble began again; for I am not patient by
nature, and it tried me very much to see my children wanting anything."

"Poor mother! what helped you then?"

"Your father, Jo. He never loses patience,--never doubts or
complains,--but always hopes, and works and waits so cheerfully, that
one is ashamed to do otherwise before him. He helped and comforted me,
and showed me that I must try to practise all the virtues I would have
my little girls possess, for I was their example. It was easier to try
for your sakes than for my own; a startled or surprised look from one of
you, when I spoke sharply, rebuked me more than any words could have
done; and the love, respect, and confidence of my children was the
sweetest reward I could receive for my efforts to be the woman I would
have them copy."

"O mother, if I'm ever half as good as you, I shall be satisfied," cried
Jo, much touched.

"I hope you will be a great deal better, dear; but you must keep watch
over your 'bosom enemy,' as father calls it, or it may sadden, if not
spoil your life. You have had a warning; remember it, and try with heart
and soul to master this quick temper, before it brings you greater
sorrow and regret than you have known to-day."

"I will try, mother; I truly will. But you must help me, remind me, and
keep me from flying out. I used to see father sometimes put his finger
on his lips, and look at you with a very kind, but sober face, and you
always folded your lips tight or went away: was he reminding you then?"
asked Jo softly.

"Yes; I asked him to help me so, and he never forgot it, but saved me
from many a sharp word by that little gesture and kind look."

Jo saw that her mother's eyes filled and her lips trembled, as she
spoke; and, fearing that she had said too much, she whispered anxiously,
"Was it wrong to watch you, and to speak of it? I didn't mean to be
rude, but it's so comfortable to say all I think to you, and feel so
safe and happy here."

"My Jo, you may say anything to your mother, for it is my greatest
happiness and pride to feel that my girls confide in me, and know how
much I love them."

"I thought I'd grieved you."

"No, dear; but speaking of father reminded me how much I miss him, how
much I owe him, and how faithfully I should watch and work to keep his
little daughters safe and good for him."

"Yet you told him to go, mother, and didn't cry when he went, and never
complain now, or seem as if you needed any help," said Jo, wondering.

"I gave my best to the country I love, and kept my tears till he was
gone. Why should I complain, when we both have merely done our duty and
will surely be the happier for it in the end? If I don't seem to need
help, it is because I have a better friend, even than father, to comfort
and sustain me. My child, the troubles and temptations of your life are
beginning, and may be many; but you can overcome and outlive them all if
you learn to feel the strength and tenderness of your Heavenly Father as
you do that of your earthly one. The more you love and trust Him, the
nearer you will feel to Him, and the less you will depend on human power
and wisdom. His love and care never tire or change, can never be taken
from you, but may become the source of life-long peace, happiness, and
strength. Believe this heartily, and go to God with all your little
cares, and hopes, and sins, and sorrows, as freely and confidingly as
you come to your mother."

Jo's only answer was to hold her mother close, and, in the silence which
followed, the sincerest prayer she had ever prayed left her heart
without words; for in that sad, yet happy hour, she had learned not only
the bitterness of remorse and despair, but the sweetness of self-denial
and self-control; and, led by her mother's hand, she had drawn nearer to
the Friend who welcomes every child with a love stronger than that of
any father, tenderer than that of any mother.

Amy stirred, and sighed in her sleep; and, as if eager to begin at once
to mend her fault, Jo looked up with an expression on her face which it
had never worn before.

"I let the sun go down on my anger; I wouldn't forgive her, and to-day,
if it hadn't been for Laurie, it might have been too late! How could I
be so wicked?" said Jo, half aloud, as she leaned over her sister,
softly stroking the wet hair scattered on the pillow.

As if she heard, Amy opened her eyes, and held out her arms, with a
smile that went straight to Jo's heart. Neither said a word, but they
hugged one another close, in spite of the blankets, and everything was
forgiven and forgotten in one hearty kiss.

              [Illustration: Packing the go abroady trunk]

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

completion: Jo Meets Apollyon Laurie invites Jo and Meg to the theater, and Amy begs to go along, but Jo refuses. To get revenge, Amy burns up a book manuscript, a collection of stories that Jo had been writing for several years. Jo, who has a hot temper, shakes Amy and boxes her ears. Gradually Amy realizes she was wrong, but Jo will not forgive her. The next day Jo goes skating with Laurie. Amy follows, but Jo does not tell her which ice is safe, and Amy falls through the ice. Laurie rescues Amy, with Jo's help. At home, with Amy safe, Jo confesses to her Mother that she was consumed by anger and could have lost Amy as a result. Marmee then tells Jo that she, too, once had a very bad temper, but that she has learned to control it. Jo's Father has been a great help to her, and she tries to be an example for her girls. Jo takes great comfort and inspiration from her Mother sharing this weakness, and prays that she will never again let her anger bring her so close to tragedy