prompt:
Chapter: XXIX. CALLS.

                         [Illustration: Calls]

"Come, Jo, it's time."

"For what?"

"You don't mean to say you have forgotten that you promised to make half
a dozen calls with me to-day?"

"I've done a good many rash and foolish things in my life, but I don't
think I ever was mad enough to say I'd make six calls in one day, when a
single one upsets me for a week."

"Yes, you did; it was a bargain between us. I was to finish the crayon
of Beth for you, and you were to go properly with me, and return our
neighbors' visits."

"If it was fair--that was in the bond; and I stand to the letter of my
bond, Shylock. There is a pile of clouds in the east; it's _not_ fair,
and I don't go."

"Now, that's shirking. It's a lovely day, no prospect of rain, and you
pride yourself on keeping promises; so be honorable; come and do your
duty, and then be at peace for another six months."

At that minute Jo was particularly absorbed in dressmaking; for she was
mantua-maker general to the family, and took especial credit to herself
because she could use a needle as well as a pen. It was very provoking
to be arrested in the act of a first trying-on, and ordered out to make
calls in her best array, on a warm July day. She hated calls of the
formal sort, and never made any till Amy compelled her with a bargain,
bribe, or promise. In the present instance, there was no escape; and
having clashed her scissors rebelliously, while protesting that she
smelt thunder, she gave in, put away her work, and taking up her hat and
gloves with an air of resignation, told Amy the victim was ready.

"Jo March, you are perverse enough to provoke a saint! You don't intend
to make calls in that state, I hope," cried Amy, surveying her with
amazement.

"Why not? I'm neat and cool and comfortable; quite proper for a dusty
walk on a warm day. If people care more for my clothes than they do for
me, I don't wish to see them. You can dress for both, and be as elegant
as you please: it pays for you to be fine; it doesn't for me, and
furbelows only worry me."

"Oh dear!" sighed Amy; "now she's in a contrary fit, and will drive me
distracted before I can get her properly ready. I'm sure it's no
pleasure to me to go to-day, but it's a debt we owe society, and there's
no one to pay it but you and me. I'll do anything for you, Jo, if you'll
only dress yourself nicely, and come and help me do the civil. You can
talk so well, look so aristocratic in your best things, and behave so
beautifully, if you try, that I'm proud of you. I'm afraid to go alone;
do come and take care of me."

"You're an artful little puss to flatter and wheedle your cross old
sister in that way. The idea of my being aristocratic and well-bred, and
your being afraid to go anywhere alone! I don't know which is the most
absurd. Well, I'll go if I must, and do my best. You shall be commander
of the expedition, and I'll obey blindly; will that satisfy you?" said
Jo, with a sudden change from perversity to lamb-like submission.

"You're a perfect cherub! Now put on all your best things, and I'll tell
you how to behave at each place, so that you will make a good
impression. I want people to like you, and they would if you'd only try
to be a little more agreeable. Do your hair the pretty way, and put the
pink rose in your bonnet; it's becoming, and you look too sober in your
plain suit. Take your light gloves and the embroidered handkerchief.
We'll stop at Meg's, and borrow her white sunshade, and then you can
have my dove-colored one."

While Amy dressed, she issued her orders, and Jo obeyed them; not
without entering her protest, however, for she sighed as she rustled
into her new organdie, frowned darkly at herself as she tied her bonnet
strings in an irreproachable bow, wrestled viciously with pins as she
put on her collar, wrinkled up her features generally as she shook out
the handkerchief, whose embroidery was as irritating to her nose as the
present mission was to her feelings; and when she had squeezed her hands
into tight gloves with three buttons and a tassel, as the last touch of
elegance, she turned to Amy with an imbecile expression of countenance,
saying meekly,--

"I'm perfectly miserable; but if you consider me presentable, I die
happy."

"You are highly satisfactory; turn slowly round, and let me get a
careful view." Jo revolved, and Amy gave a touch here and there, then
fell back, with her head on one side, observing graciously, "Yes, you'll
do; your head is all I could ask, for that white bonnet _with_ the rose
is quite ravishing. Hold back your shoulders, and carry your hands
easily, no matter if your gloves do pinch. There's one thing you can do
well, Jo, that is, wear a shawl--I can't; but it's very nice to see you,
and I'm so glad Aunt March gave you that lovely one; it's simple, but
handsome, and those folds over the arm are really artistic. Is the point
of my mantle in the middle, and have I looped my dress evenly? I like to
show my boots, for my feet _are_ pretty, though my nose isn't."

"You are a thing of beauty and a joy forever," said Jo, looking through
her hand with the air of a connoisseur at the blue feather against the
gold hair. "Am I to drag my best dress through the dust, or loop it up,
please, ma'am?"

"Hold it up when you walk, but drop it in the house; the sweeping style
suits you best, and you must learn to trail your skirts gracefully. You
haven't half buttoned one cuff; do it at once. You'll never look
finished if you are not careful about the little details, for they make
up the pleasing whole."

Jo sighed, and proceeded to burst the buttons off her glove, in doing up
her cuff; but at last both were ready, and sailed away, looking as
"pretty as picters," Hannah said, as she hung out of the upper window to
watch them.

"Now, Jo dear, the Chesters consider themselves very elegant people, so
I want you to put on your best deportment. Don't make any of your abrupt
remarks, or do anything odd, will you? Just be calm, cool, and
quiet,--that's safe and ladylike; and you can easily do it for fifteen
minutes," said Amy, as they approached the first place, having borrowed
the white parasol and been inspected by Meg, with a baby on each arm.

"Let me see. 'Calm, cool, and quiet,'--yes, I think I can promise that.
I've played the part of a prim young lady on the stage, and I'll try it
off. My powers are great, as you shall see; so be easy in your mind, my
child."

Amy looked relieved, but naughty Jo took her at her word; for, during
the first call, she sat with every limb gracefully composed, every fold
correctly draped, calm as a summer sea, cool as a snow-bank, and as
silent as a sphinx. In vain Mrs. Chester alluded to her "charming
novel," and the Misses Chester introduced parties, picnics, the opera,
and the fashions; each and all were answered by a smile, a bow, and a
demure "Yes" or "No," with the chill on. In vain Amy telegraphed the
word "Talk," tried to draw her out, and administered covert pokes with
her foot. Jo sat as if blandly unconscious of it all, with deportment
like Maud's face, "icily regular, splendidly null."

"What a haughty, uninteresting creature that oldest Miss March is!" was
the unfortunately audible remark of one of the ladies, as the door
closed upon their guests. Jo laughed noiselessly all through the hall,
but Amy looked disgusted at the failure of her instructions, and very
naturally laid the blame upon Jo.

"How could you mistake me so? I merely meant you to be properly
dignified and composed, and you made yourself a perfect stock and
stone. Try to be sociable at the Lambs', gossip as other girls do, and
be interested in dress and flirtations and whatever nonsense comes up.
They move in the best society, are valuable persons for us to know, and
I wouldn't fail to make a good impression there for anything."

"I'll be agreeable; I'll gossip and giggle, and have horrors and
raptures over any trifle you like. I rather enjoy this, and now I'll
imitate what is called 'a charming girl;' I can do it, for I have May
Chester as a model, and I'll improve upon her. See if the Lambs don't
say, 'What a lively, nice creature that Jo March is!'"

Amy felt anxious, as well she might, for when Jo turned freakish there
was no knowing where she would stop. Amy's face was a study when she saw
her sister skim into the next drawing-room, kiss all the young ladies
with effusion, beam graciously upon the young gentlemen, and join in the
chat with a spirit which amazed the beholder. Amy was taken possession
of by Mrs. Lamb, with whom she was a favorite, and forced to hear a long
account of Lucretia's last attack, while three delightful young
gentlemen hovered near, waiting for a pause when they might rush in and
rescue her. So situated, she was powerless to check Jo, who seemed
possessed by a spirit of mischief, and talked away as volubly as the old
lady. A knot of heads gathered about her, and Amy strained her ears to
hear what was going on; for broken sentences filled her with alarm,
round eyes and uplifted hands tormented her with curiosity, and frequent
peals of laughter made her wild to share the fun. One may imagine her
suffering on overhearing fragments of this sort of conversation:--

"She rides splendidly,--who taught her?"

"No one; she used to practise mounting, holding the reins, and sitting
straight on an old saddle in a tree. Now she rides anything, for she
doesn't know what fear is, and the stable-man lets her have horses
cheap, because she trains them to carry ladies so well. She has such a
passion for it, I often tell her if everything else fails she can be a
horse-breaker, and get her living so."

At this awful speech Amy contained herself with difficulty, for the
impression was being given that she was rather a fast young lady, which
was her especial aversion. But what could she do? for the old lady was
in the middle of her story, and long before it was done Jo was off
again, making more droll revelations, and committing still more fearful
blunders.

"Yes, Amy was in despair that day, for all the good beasts were gone,
and of three left, one was lame, one blind, and the other so balky that
you had to put dirt in his mouth before he would start. Nice animal for
a pleasure party, wasn't it?"

"Which did she choose?" asked one of the laughing gentlemen, who enjoyed
the subject.

"None of them; she heard of a young horse at the farmhouse over the
river, and, though a lady had never ridden him, she resolved to try,
because he was handsome and spirited. Her struggles were really
pathetic; there was no one to bring the horse to the saddle, so she took
the saddle to the horse. My dear creature, she actually rowed it over
the river, put it on her head, and marched up to the barn to the utter
amazement of the old man!"

            [Illustration: She took the saddle to the horse]

"Did she ride the horse?"

"Of course she did, and had a capital time. I expected to see her
brought home in fragments, but she managed him perfectly, and was the
life of the party."

"Well, I call that plucky!" and young Mr. Lamb turned an approving
glance upon Amy, wondering what his mother could be saying to make the
girl look so red and uncomfortable.

She was still redder and more uncomfortable a moment after, when a
sudden turn in the conversation introduced the subject of dress. One of
the young ladies asked Jo where she got the pretty drab hat she wore to
the picnic; and stupid Jo, instead of mentioning the place where it was
bought two years ago, must needs answer, with unnecessary frankness,
"Oh, Amy painted it; you can't buy those soft shades, so we paint ours
any color we like. It's a great comfort to have an artistic sister."

"Isn't that an original idea?" cried Miss Lamb, who found Jo great fun.

"That's nothing compared to some of her brilliant performances. There's
nothing the child can't do. Why, she wanted a pair of blue boots for
Sallie's party, so she just painted her soiled white ones the loveliest
shade of sky-blue you ever saw, and they looked exactly like satin,"
added Jo, with an air of pride in her sister's accomplishments that
exasperated Amy till she felt that it would be a relief to throw her
card-case at her.

"We read a story of yours the other day, and enjoyed it very much,"
observed the elder Miss Lamb, wishing to compliment the literary lady,
who did not look the character just then, it must be confessed.

Any mention of her "works" always had a bad effect upon Jo, who either
grew rigid and looked offended, or changed the subject with a _brusque_
remark, as now. "Sorry you could find nothing better to read. I write
that rubbish because it sells, and ordinary people like it. Are you
going to New York this winter?"

As Miss Lamb had "enjoyed" the story, this speech was not exactly
grateful or complimentary. The minute it was made Jo saw her mistake;
but, fearing to make the matter worse, suddenly remembered that it was
for her to make the first move toward departure, and did so with an
abruptness that left three people with half-finished sentences in their
mouths.

"Amy, we _must_ go. _Good_-by, dear; _do_ come and see us; we are
_pining_ for a visit. I don't dare to ask _you_, Mr. Lamb; but if you
_should_ come, I don't think I shall have the heart to send you away."

Jo said this with such a droll imitation of May Chester's gushing style
that Amy got out of the room as rapidly as possible, feeling a strong
desire to laugh and cry at the same time.

"Didn't I do that well?" asked Jo, with a satisfied air, as they walked
away.

"Nothing could have been worse," was Amy's crushing reply. "What
possessed you to tell those stories about my saddle, and the hats and
boots, and all the rest of it?"

"Why, it's funny, and amuses people. They know we are poor, so it's no
use pretending that we have grooms, buy three or four hats a season, and
have things as easy and fine as they do."

"You needn't go and tell them all our little shifts, and expose our
poverty in that perfectly unnecessary way. You haven't a bit of proper
pride, and never will learn when to hold your tongue and when to speak,"
said Amy despairingly.

Poor Jo looked abashed, and silently chafed the end of her nose with the
stiff handkerchief, as if performing a penance for her misdemeanors.

"How shall I behave here?" she asked, as they approached the third
mansion.

"Just as you please; I wash my hands of you," was Amy's short answer.

"Then I'll enjoy myself. The boys are at home, and we'll have a
comfortable time. Goodness knows I need a little change, for elegance
has a bad effect upon my constitution," returned Jo gruffly, being
disturbed by her failures to suit.

An enthusiastic welcome from three big boys and several pretty children
speedily soothed her ruffled feelings; and, leaving Amy to entertain the
hostess and Mr. Tudor, who happened to be calling likewise, Jo devoted
herself to the young folks, and found the change refreshing. She
listened to college stories with deep interest, caressed pointers and
poodles without a murmur, agreed heartily that "Tom Brown was a brick,"
regardless of the improper form of praise; and when one lad proposed a
visit to his turtle-tank, she went with an alacrity which caused mamma
to smile upon her, as that motherly lady settled the cap which was left
in a ruinous condition by filial hugs, bear-like but affectionate, and
dearer to her than the most faultless _coiffure_ from the hands of an
inspired Frenchwoman.

Leaving her sister to her own devices, Amy proceeded to enjoy herself to
her heart's content. Mr. Tudor's uncle had married an English lady who
was third cousin to a living lord, and Amy regarded the whole family
with great respect; for, in spite of her American birth and breeding,
she possessed that reverence for titles which haunts the best of
us,--that unacknowledged loyalty to the early faith in kings which set
the most democratic nation under the sun in a ferment at the coming of a
royal yellow-haired laddie, some years ago, and which still has
something to do with the love the young country bears the old, like that
of a big son for an imperious little mother, who held him while she
could, and let him go with a farewell scolding when he rebelled. But
even the satisfaction of talking with a distant connection of the
British nobility did not render Amy forgetful of time; and when the
proper number of minutes had passed, she reluctantly tore herself from
this aristocratic society, and looked about for Jo, fervently hoping
that her incorrigible sister would not be found in any position which
should bring disgrace upon the name of March.

                [Illustration: It might have been worse]

It might have been worse, but Amy considered it bad; for Jo sat on the
grass, with an encampment of boys about her, and a dirty-footed dog
reposing on the skirt of her state and festival dress, as she related
one of Laurie's pranks to her admiring audience. One small child was
poking turtles with Amy's cherished parasol, a second was eating
gingerbread over Jo's best bonnet, and a third playing ball with her
gloves. But all were enjoying themselves; and when Jo collected her
damaged property to go, her escort accompanied her, begging her to come
again, "it was such fun to hear about Laurie's larks."

"Capital boys, aren't they? I feel quite young and brisk again after
that," said Jo, strolling along with her hands behind her, partly from
habit, partly to conceal the bespattered parasol.

"Why do you always avoid Mr. Tudor?" asked Amy, wisely refraining from
any comment upon Jo's dilapidated appearance.

"Don't like him; he puts on airs, snubs his sisters, worries his father,
and doesn't speak respectfully of his mother. Laurie says he is fast,
and _I_ don't consider him a desirable acquaintance; so I let him
alone."

"You might treat him civilly, at least. You gave him a cool nod; and
just now you bowed and smiled in the politest way to Tommy Chamberlain,
whose father keeps a grocery store. If you had just reversed the nod and
the bow, it would have been right," said Amy reprovingly.

"No, it wouldn't," returned perverse Jo; "I neither like, respect, nor
admire Tudor, though his grandfather's uncle's nephew's niece _was_
third cousin to a lord. Tommy is poor and bashful and good and very
clever; I think well of him, and like to show that I do, for he _is_ a
gentleman in spite of the brown-paper parcels."

"It's no use trying to argue with you," began Amy.

"Not the least, my dear," interrupted Jo; "so let us look amiable, and
drop a card here, as the Kings are evidently out, for which I'm deeply
grateful."

The family card-case having done its duty, the girls walked on, and Jo
uttered another thanksgiving on reaching the fifth house, and being told
that the young ladies were engaged.

"Now let us go home, and never mind Aunt March to-day. We can run down
there any time, and it's really a pity to trail through the dust in our
best bibs and tuckers, when we are tired and cross."

"Speak for yourself, if you please. Aunt likes to have us pay her the
compliment of coming in style, and making a formal call; it's a little
thing to do, but it gives her pleasure, and I don't believe it will hurt
your things half so much as letting dirty dogs and clumping boys spoil
them. Stoop down, and let me take the crumbs off of your bonnet."

"What a good girl you are, Amy!" said Jo, with a repentant glance from
her own damaged costume to that of her sister, which was fresh and
spotless still. "I wish it was as easy for me to do little things to
please people as it is for you. I think of them, but it takes too much
time to do them; so I wait for a chance to confer a great favor, and let
the small ones slip; but they tell best in the end, I fancy."

Amy smiled, and was mollified at once, saying with a maternal air,--

"Women should learn to be agreeable, particularly poor ones; for they
have no other way of repaying the kindnesses they receive. If you'd
remember that, and practise it, you'd be better liked than I am, because
there is more of you."

"I'm a crotchety old thing, and always shall be, but I'm willing to own
that you are right; only it's easier for me to risk my life for a person
than to be pleasant to him when I don't feel like it. It's a great
misfortune to have such strong likes and dislikes, isn't it?"

"It's a greater not to be able to hide them. I don't mind saying that I
don't approve of Tudor any more than you do; but I'm not called upon to
tell him so; neither are you, and there is no use in making yourself
disagreeable because he is."

"But I think girls ought to show when they disapprove of young men; and
how can they do it except by their manners? Preaching does not do any
good, as I know to my sorrow, since I've had Teddy to manage; but there
are many little ways in which I can influence him without a word, and I
say we _ought_ to do it to others if we can."

"Teddy is a remarkable boy, and can't be taken as a sample of other
boys," said Amy, in a tone of solemn conviction, which would have
convulsed the "remarkable boy," if he had heard it. "If we were belles,
or women of wealth and position, we might do something, perhaps; but for
us to frown at one set of young gentlemen because we don't approve of
them, and smile upon another set because we do, wouldn't have a particle
of effect, and we should only be considered odd and puritanical."

"So we are to countenance things and people which we detest, merely
because we are not belles and millionaires, are we? That's a nice sort
of morality."

"I can't argue about it, I only know that it's the way of the world; and
people who set themselves against it only get laughed at for their
pains. I don't like reformers, and I hope you will never try to be one."

"I do like them, and I shall be one if I can; for in spite of the
laughing, the world would never get on without them. We can't agree
about that, for you belong to the old set, and I to the new: you will
get on the best, but I shall have the liveliest time of it. I should
rather enjoy the brickbats and hooting, I think."

"Well, compose yourself now, and don't worry aunt with your new ideas."

"I'll try not to, but I'm always possessed to burst out with some
particularly blunt speech or revolutionary sentiment before her; it's my
doom, and I can't help it."

They found Aunt Carrol with the old lady, both absorbed in some very
interesting subject; but they dropped it as the girls came in, with a
conscious look which betrayed that they had been talking about their
nieces. Jo was not in a good humor, and the perverse fit returned; but
Amy, who had virtuously done her duty, kept her temper, and pleased
everybody, was in a most angelic frame of mind. This amiable spirit was
felt at once, and both the aunts "my deared" her affectionately, looking
what they afterwards said emphatically,--"That child improves every
day."

"Are you going to help about the fair, dear?" asked Mrs. Carrol, as Amy
sat down beside her with the confiding air elderly people like so well
in the young.

"Yes, aunt. Mrs. Chester asked me if I would, and I offered to tend a
table, as I have nothing but my time to give."

"I'm not," put in Jo decidedly. "I hate to be patronized, and the
Chesters think it's a great favor to allow us to help with their highly
connected fair. I wonder you consented, Amy: they only want you to
work."

"I am willing to work: it's for the freedmen as well as the Chesters,
and I think it very kind of them to let me share the labor and the fun.
Patronage does not trouble me when it is well meant."

"Quite right and proper. I like your grateful spirit, my dear; it's a
pleasure to help people who appreciate our efforts: some do not, and
that is trying," observed Aunt March, looking over her spectacles at Jo,
who sat apart, rocking herself, with a somewhat morose expression.

                [Illustration: The call at Aunt March's]

If Jo had only known what a great happiness was wavering in the balance
for one of them, she would have turned dovelike in a minute; but,
unfortunately, we don't have windows in our breasts, and cannot see what
goes on in the minds of our friends; better for us that we cannot as a
general thing, but now and then it would be such a comfort, such a
saving of time and temper. By her next speech, Jo deprived herself of
several years of pleasure, and received a timely lesson in the art of
holding her tongue.

"I don't like favors; they oppress and make me feel like a slave. I'd
rather do everything for myself, and be perfectly independent."

"Ahem!" coughed Aunt Carrol softly, with a look at Aunt March.

"I told you so," said Aunt March, with a decided nod to Aunt Carrol.

Mercifully unconscious of what she had done, Jo sat with her nose in the
air, and a revolutionary aspect which was anything but inviting.

"Do you speak French, dear?" asked Mrs. Carrol, laying her hand on
Amy's.

"Pretty well, thanks to Aunt March, who lets Esther talk to me as often
as I like," replied Amy, with a grateful look, which caused the old lady
to smile affably.

"How are you about languages?" asked Mrs. Carrol of Jo.

"Don't know a word; I'm very stupid about studying anything; can't bear
French, it's such a slippery, silly sort of language," was the _brusque_
reply.

Another look passed between the ladies, and Aunt March said to Amy, "You
are quite strong and well, now, dear, I believe? Eyes don't trouble you
any more, do they?"

"Not at all, thank you, ma'am. I'm very well, and mean to do great
things next winter, so that I may be ready for Rome, whenever that
joyful time arrives."

"Good girl! You deserve to go, and I'm sure you will some day," said
Aunt March, with an approving pat on the head, as Amy picked up her ball
for her.

        "Cross-patch, draw the latch,
         Sit by the fire and spin,"

squalled Polly, bending down from his perch on the back of her chair to
peep into Jo's face, with such a comical air of impertinent inquiry that
it was impossible to help laughing.

"Most observing bird," said the old lady.

"Come and take a walk, my dear?" cried Polly, hopping toward the
china-closet, with a look suggestive of lump-sugar.

"Thank you, I will. Come, Amy;" and Jo brought the visit to an end,
feeling more strongly than ever that calls did have a bad effect upon
her constitution. She shook hands in a gentlemanly manner, but Amy
kissed both the aunts, and the girls departed, leaving behind them the
impression of shadow and sunshine; which impression caused Aunt March to
say, as they vanished,--

"You'd better do it, Mary; I'll supply the money," and Aunt Carrol to
reply decidedly, "I certainly will, if her father and mother consent."

                       [Illustration: Tail-piece]

              [Illustration: You shall have another table]

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

completion: Amy reminds Jo that she has promised to make six calls with her today. Jo really doesn't want to make the calls, but Amy insists that they had a deal - she finished a sketch of Beth for Jo, and Jo promised to help her call on their neighbors. Jo reluctantly agrees to accompany Amy, puts her sewing aside, and picks up her hat and gloves. Amy is distressed to learn that Jo intends to call on people wearing old, casual clothes. She wheedles her sister into getting dressed properly. Jo obeys Amy's instructions about what to wear and how to do her hair. Amy makes sure that both of them look absolutely perfect before they leave the house. Amy and Jo finally get underway; Hannah watches them go and is proud of their appearance. The first call that Amy and Jo make is at the home of the Chesters. Before they go in, Amy gives Jo pointers on how to behave, telling her to be "calm, cool, and quiet." Jo follows the letter of Amy's instructions, but not the spirit. She gives one-word answers to everything and acts excessively dignified. Mrs. Chester and her daughters try to draw her out by asking about her writing, but she remains aloof. As they leave the Chester home, they hear one of the women say that Jo is haughty and uninteresting. Amy is frustrated with Jo and tells her that she should be more personable and should gossip and chat with the women as they visit. The next visit is to the home of the Lambs. Here Jo again follows the precise letter of her instructions - in fact, she does a mean imitation of May Chester, Mrs. Chester's daughter, and gossips and giggles and goes completely over the top. The Lambs are especially amused by Jo's anecdotes about Amy's silly childhood escapades. Amy is desperately embarrassed as Jo tells stories about how she learned to ride on a clothes-horse and once carried a saddle on her head across a stream to ride a neighbor's horse. Things only get worse for Amy as Jo receives a compliment on her hat - and reveals to everyone that Amy painted an old straw hat to make it nice and fashionable again. When the Lambs are intrigued, Jo reveals that Amy once painted an old white pair of boots blue to make them look like satin. Amy is ashamed that everyone knows that they are too poor to afford new accessories. Miss Lamb compliments Jo on one of her short stories, and Jo brushes off the compliment. Unfortunately, Jo's modesty seems like an insult to Miss Lamb's taste. Jo realizes that she has offended Miss Lamb and abruptly breaks off the visit. As Jo and Amy leave, Jo is very satisfied with her performance, but Amy is almost in tears. At the next house , Amy washes her hands of Jo. They find that a mutual friend, Mr. Tudor, is also calling on the family. Amy chats with the hostess and Mr. Tudor while Jo plays with the young men and children in the family. Jo is dragged off to see a pet turtle belonging to one of the boys. Amy lets herself enjoy chatting with Mr. Tudor, who is a British aristocrat. Amy's social-climbing heart really enjoys hobnobbing with the titled upper classes. After an appropriate time , Amy politely begins to end the visit. She goes to find Jo and is distressed to find her sister sitting on the lawn in her best dress, a dog lying on her skirt, the children gathered around her, telling a somewhat inappropriate story about a practical joke that Laurie played. As they leave, Amy doesn't comment on Jo's ragged appearance, but does ask why her sister doesn't like Mr. Tudor. Jo says that he is immoral - he treats his family badly and Laurie says he is "fast," which probably means that he wastes money, has mistresses, gambles, drinks, or does other things considered improper. Jo and Amy debate the way that Jo treats people. Amy says that Jo should have respect for Mr. Tudor's rank and position. Jo says that she has more respect for the grocer's son, Tommy Chamberlain, because he is a good person. Amy and Jo's next visit is to the home of the Kings. The Kings aren't home, so Amy leaves a card. At the fifth house, Amy and Jo are told that the family is "engaged," which probably means that they already have callers and can't comfortably fit any more people in their living room. The last call that Jo and Amy need to make is to their Aunt March's house. Jo wants to skip it and go home, because they can see Aunt March any time, but Amy says that Aunt March likes to see them pay formal visits, too. Jo sighs and comments on what a good person Amy is; being polite to people and pleasing them seems to come naturally to Amy, but it's very difficult for Jo. Amy and Jo discuss politeness. Jo thinks it is essential that women show their disapproval of immoral men - hence the way that she snubs Mr. Tudor. Amy thinks that it doesn't do any good when they are rude to him, and it helps them when they are polite. When Amy and Jo call on Aunt March, they find their other aunt, Aunt Carrol, visiting also. The two women have been discussing something intently, but they stop when the girls come in. Aunt Carrol asks Amy if she is going to help with the fair - apparently there is going to be a local craft fair. Amy says yes, and that Mrs. Chester, who is organizing the fair, has asked her to be in charge of a table. Aunt Carrol and Aunt March are pleased at Amy's deference toward Mrs. Chester and willingness to accept favors gracefully. Jo says that she hates taking favors from anyone, and her aunts exchange a significant look. Aunt Carrol asks Amy if she speaks French. Amy says that she does, because Aunt March's maid, Esther, taught her. Next Aunt Carrol asks Jo what languages she knows. Jo says that she doesn't know any and isn't any good with languages. Aunt Carrol talks to Amy about her long-term dream to go to Rome and continue studying art. She says that she's sure Amy will get to go someday. As the girls leave, Aunt March tells Aunt Carrol that she should do "it," whatever "it" is, and that she will pay for it.


prompt:
Chapter: XXX. CONSEQUENCES.

Mrs. Chester's fair was so very elegant and select that it was
considered a great honor by the young ladies of the neighborhood to be
invited to take a table, and every one was much interested in the
matter. Amy was asked, but Jo was not, which was fortunate for all
parties, as her elbows were decidedly akimbo at this period of her life,
and it took a good many hard knocks to teach her how to get on easily.
The "haughty, uninteresting creature" was let severely alone; but Amy's
talent and taste were duly complimented by the offer of the art-table,
and she exerted herself to prepare and secure appropriate and valuable
contributions to it.

Everything went on smoothly till the day before the fair opened; then
there occurred one of the little skirmishes which it is almost
impossible to avoid, when some five and twenty women, old and young,
with all their private piques and prejudices, try to work together.

May Chester was rather jealous of Amy because the latter was a greater
favorite than herself, and, just at this time, several trifling
circumstances occurred to increase the feeling. Amy's dainty pen-and-ink
work entirely eclipsed May's painted vases,--that was one thorn; then
the all-conquering Tudor had danced four times with Amy, at a late
party, and only once with May,--that was thorn number two; but the chief
grievance that rankled in her soul, and gave her an excuse for her
unfriendly conduct, was a rumor which some obliging gossip had whispered
to her, that the March girls had made fun of her at the Lambs'. All the
blame of this should have fallen upon Jo, for her naughty imitation had
been too lifelike to escape detection, and the frolicsome Lambs had
permitted the joke to escape. No hint of this had reached the culprits,
however, and Amy's dismay can be imagined, when, the very evening before
the fair, as she was putting the last touches to her pretty table, Mrs.
Chester, who, of course, resented the supposed ridicule of her daughter,
said, in a bland tone, but with a cold look,--

"I find, dear, that there is some feeling among the young ladies about
my giving this table to any one but my girls. As this is the most
prominent, and some say the most attractive table of all, and they are
the chief getters-up of the fair, it is thought best for them to take
this place. I'm sorry, but I know you are too sincerely interested in
the cause to mind a little personal disappointment, and you shall have
another table if you like."

Mrs. Chester had fancied beforehand that it would be easy to deliver
this little speech; but when the time came, she found it rather
difficult to utter it naturally, with Amy's unsuspicious eyes looking
straight at her, full of surprise and trouble.

Amy felt that there was something behind this, but could not guess what,
and said quietly, feeling hurt, and showing that she did,--

"Perhaps you had rather I took no table at all?"

"Now, my dear, don't have any ill feeling, I beg; it's merely a matter
of expediency, you see; my girls will naturally take the lead, and this
table is considered their proper place. _I_ think it very appropriate
to you, and feel very grateful for your efforts to make it so pretty;
but we must give up our private wishes, of course, and I will see that
you have a good place elsewhere. Wouldn't you like the flower-table? The
little girls undertook it, but they are discouraged. You could make a
charming thing of it, and the flower-table is always attractive, you
know."

"Especially to gentlemen," added May, with a look which enlightened Amy
as to one cause of her sudden fall from favor. She colored angrily, but
took no other notice of that girlish sarcasm, and answered, with
unexpected amiability,--

"It shall be as you please, Mrs. Chester. I'll give up my place here at
once, and attend to the flowers, if you like."

"You can put your own things on your own table, if you prefer," began
May, feeling a little conscience-stricken, as she looked at the pretty
racks, the painted shells, and quaint illuminations Amy had so carefully
made and so gracefully arranged. She meant it kindly, but Amy mistook
her meaning, and said quickly,--

"Oh, certainly, if they are in your way;" and sweeping her contributions
into her apron, pell-mell, she walked off, feeling that herself and her
works of art had been insulted past forgiveness.

"Now she's mad. Oh, dear, I wish I hadn't asked you to speak, mamma,"
said May, looking disconsolately at the empty spaces on her table.

"Girls' quarrels are soon over," returned her mother, feeling a trifle
ashamed of her own part in this one, as well she might.

The little girls hailed Amy and her treasures with delight, which
cordial reception somewhat soothed her perturbed spirit, and she fell to
work, determined to succeed florally, if she could not artistically. But
everything seemed against her: it was late, and she was tired; every one
was too busy with their own affairs to help her; and the little girls
were only hindrances, for the dears fussed and chattered like so many
magpies, making a great deal of confusion in their artless efforts to
preserve the most perfect order. The evergreen arch wouldn't stay firm
after she got it up, but wiggled and threatened to tumble down on her
head when the hanging baskets were filled; her best tile got a splash of
water, which left a sepia tear on the Cupid's cheek; she bruised her
hands with hammering, and got cold working in a draught, which last
affliction filled her with apprehensions for the morrow. Any girl-reader
who has suffered like afflictions will sympathize with poor Amy, and
wish her well through with her task.

There was great indignation at home when she told her story that
evening. Her mother said it was a shame, but told her she had done
right; Beth declared she wouldn't go to the fair at all; and Jo demanded
why she didn't take all her pretty things and leave those mean people to
get on without her.

"Because they are mean is no reason why I should be. I hate such things,
and though I think I've a right to be hurt, I don't intend to show it.
They will feel that more than angry speeches or huffy actions, won't
they, Marmee?"

"That's the right spirit, my dear; a kiss for a blow is always best,
though it's not very easy to give it sometimes," said her mother, with
the air of one who had learned the difference between preaching and
practising.

In spite of various very natural temptations to resent and retaliate,
Amy adhered to her resolution all the next day, bent on conquering her
enemy by kindness. She began well, thanks to a silent reminder that came
to her unexpectedly, but most opportunely. As she arranged her table
that morning, while the little girls were in an ante-room filling the
baskets, she took up her pet production,--a little book, the antique
cover of which her father had found among his treasures, and in which,
on leaves of vellum, she had beautifully illuminated different texts. As
she turned the pages, rich in dainty devices, with very pardonable
pride, her eye fell upon one verse that made her stop and think. Framed
in a brilliant scroll-work of scarlet, blue, and gold, with little
spirits of good-will helping one another up and down among the thorns
and flowers, were the words, "Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself."

"I ought, but I don't," thought Amy, as her eye went from the bright
page to May's discontented face behind the big vases, that could not
hide the vacancies her pretty work had once filled. Amy stood a minute,
turning the leaves in her hand, reading on each some sweet rebuke for
all heart-burnings and uncharitableness of spirit. Many wise and true
sermons are preached us every day by unconscious ministers in street,
school, office, or home; even a fair-table may become a pulpit, if it
can offer the good and helpful words which are never out of season.
Amy's conscience preached her a little sermon from that text, then and
there; and she did what many of us do not always do,--took the sermon to
heart, and straightway put it in practice.

A group of girls were standing about May's table, admiring the pretty
things, and talking over the change of saleswomen. They dropped their
voices, but Amy knew they were speaking of her, hearing one side of the
story, and judging accordingly. It was not pleasant, but a better spirit
had come over her, and presently a chance offered for proving it. She
heard May say sorrowfully,--

"It's too bad, for there is no time to make other things, and I don't
want to fill up with odds and ends. The table was just complete then:
now it's spoilt."

"I dare say she'd put them back if you asked her," suggested some one.

"How could I after all the fuss?" began May, but she did not finish, for
Amy's voice came across the hall, saying pleasantly,--

"You may have them, and welcome, without asking, if you want them. I was
just thinking I'd offer to put them back, for they belong to your table
rather than mine. Here they are; please take them, and forgive me if I
was hasty in carrying them away last night."

As she spoke, Amy returned her contribution, with a nod and a smile, and
hurried away again, feeling that it was easier to do a friendly thing
than it was to stay and be thanked for it.

"Now, I call that lovely of her, don't you?" cried one girl.

May's answer was inaudible; but another young lady, whose temper was
evidently a little soured by making lemonade, added, with a disagreeable
laugh, "Very lovely; for she knew she wouldn't sell them at her own
table."

Now, that was hard; when we make little sacrifices we like to have them
appreciated, at least; and for a minute Amy was sorry she had done it,
feeling that virtue was not always its own reward. But it is,--as she
presently discovered; for her spirits began to rise, and her table to
blossom under her skilful hands; the girls were very kind, and that one
little act seemed to have cleared the atmosphere amazingly.

It was a very long day, and a hard one to Amy, as she sat behind her
table, often quite alone, for the little girls deserted very soon: few
cared to buy flowers in summer, and her bouquets began to droop long
before night.

The art-table _was_ the most attractive in the room; there was a crowd
about it all day long, and the tenders were constantly flying to and fro
with important faces and rattling money-boxes. Amy often looked
wistfully across, longing to be there, where she felt at home and happy,
instead of in a corner with nothing to do. It might seem no hardship to
some of us; but to a pretty, blithe young girl, it was not only tedious,
but very trying; and the thought of being found there in the evening by
her family, and Laurie and his friends, made it a real martyrdom.

She did not go home till night, and then she looked so pale and quiet
that they knew the day had been a hard one, though she made no
complaint, and did not even tell what she had done. Her mother gave her
an extra cordial cup of tea, Beth helped her dress, and made a charming
little wreath for her hair, while Jo astonished her family by getting
herself up with unusual care, and hinting darkly that the tables were
about to be turned.

"Don't do anything rude, pray, Jo. I won't have any fuss made, so let it
all pass, and behave yourself," begged Amy, as she departed early,
hoping to find a reinforcement of flowers to refresh her poor little
table.

"I merely intend to make myself entrancingly agreeable to every one I
know, and to keep them in your corner as long as possible. Teddy and his
boys will lend a hand, and we'll have a good time yet," returned Jo,
leaning over the gate to watch for Laurie. Presently the familiar tramp
was heard in the dusk, and she ran out to meet him.

"Is that my boy?"

"As sure as this is my girl!" and Laurie tucked her hand under his arm,
with the air of a man whose every wish was gratified.

"O Teddy, such doings!" and Jo told Amy's wrongs with sisterly zeal.

"A flock of our fellows are going to drive over by and by, and I'll be
hanged if I don't make them buy every flower she's got, and camp down
before her table afterward," said Laurie, espousing her cause with
warmth.

"The flowers are not at all nice, Amy says, and the fresh ones may not
arrive in time. I don't wish to be unjust or suspicious, but I shouldn't
wonder if they never came at all. When people do one mean thing they are
very likely to do another," observed Jo, in a disgusted tone.

"Didn't Hayes give you the best out of our gardens? I told him to."

"I didn't know that; he forgot, I suppose; and, as your grandpa was
poorly, I didn't like to worry him by asking, though I did want some."

"Now, Jo, how could you think there was any need of asking! They are
just as much yours as mine. Don't we always go halves in everything?"
began Laurie, in the tone that always made Jo turn thorny.

"Gracious, I hope not! half of some of your things wouldn't suit me at
all. But we mustn't stand philandering here; I've got to help Amy, so
you go and make yourself splendid; and if you'll be so very kind as to
let Hayes take a few nice flowers up to the Hall, I'll bless you
forever."

"Couldn't you do it now?" asked Laurie, so suggestively that Jo shut the
gate in his face with inhospitable haste, and called through the bars,
"Go away, Teddy; I'm busy."

Thanks to the conspirators, the tables _were_ turned that night; for
Hayes sent up a wilderness of flowers, with a lovely basket, arranged in
his best manner, for a centre-piece; then the March family turned out
_en masse_, and Jo exerted herself to some purpose, for people not only
came, but stayed, laughing at her nonsense, admiring Amy's taste, and
apparently enjoying themselves very much. Laurie and his friends
gallantly threw themselves into the breach, bought up the bouquets,
encamped before the table, and made that corner the liveliest spot in
the room. Amy was in her element now, and, out of gratitude, if nothing
more, was as sprightly and gracious as possible,--coming to the
conclusion, about that time, that virtue _was_ its own reward, after
all.

                 [Illustration: Bought up the bouquets]

Jo behaved herself with exemplary propriety; and when Amy was happily
surrounded by her guard of honor, Jo circulated about the hall, picking
up various bits of gossip, which enlightened her upon the subject of the
Chester change of base. She reproached herself for her share of the
ill-feeling, and resolved to exonerate Amy as soon as possible; she also
discovered what Amy had done about the things in the morning, and
considered her a model of magnanimity. As she passed the art-table, she
glanced over it for her sister's things, but saw no signs of them.
"Tucked away out of sight, I dare say," thought Jo, who could forgive
her own wrongs, but hotly resented any insult offered to her family.

"Good evening, Miss Jo. How does Amy get on?" asked May, with a
conciliatory air, for she wanted to show that she also could be
generous.

"She has sold everything she had that was worth selling, and now she is
enjoying herself. The flower-table is always attractive, you know,
'especially to gentlemen.'"

Jo _couldn't_ resist giving that little slap, but May took it so meekly
she regretted it a minute after, and fell to praising the great vases,
which still remained unsold.

"Is Amy's illumination anywhere about? I took a fancy to buy that for
father," said Jo, very anxious to learn the fate of her sister's work.

"Everything of Amy's sold long ago; I took care that the right people
saw them, and they made a nice little sum of money for us," returned
May, who had overcome sundry small temptations, as well as Amy, that
day.

Much gratified, Jo rushed back to tell the good news; and Amy looked
both touched and surprised by the report of May's words and manner.

"Now, gentlemen, I want you to go and do your duty by the other tables
as generously as you have by mine--especially the art-table," she said,
ordering out "Teddy's Own," as the girls called the college friends.

"'Charge, Chester, charge!' is the motto for that table; but do your
duty like men, and you'll get your money's worth of _art_ in every sense
of the word," said the irrepressible Jo, as the devoted phalanx prepared
to take the field.

"To hear is to obey, but March is fairer far than May," said little
Parker, making a frantic effort to be both witty and tender, and getting
promptly quenched by Laurie, who said, "Very well, my son, for a small
boy!" and walked him off, with a paternal pat on the head.

"Buy the vases," whispered Amy to Laurie, as a final heaping of coals of
fire on her enemy's head.

To May's great delight, Mr. Laurence not only bought the vases, but
pervaded the hall with one under each arm. The other gentlemen
speculated with equal rashness in all sorts of frail trifles, and
wandered helplessly about afterward, burdened with wax flowers, painted
fans, filigree portfolios, and other useful and appropriate purchases.

Aunt Carrol was there, heard the story, looked pleased, and said
something to Mrs. March in a corner, which made the latter lady beam
with satisfaction, and watch Amy with a face full of mingled pride and
anxiety, though she did not betray the cause of her pleasure till
several days later.

The fair was pronounced a success; and when May bade Amy good night, she
did not "gush" as usual, but gave her an affectionate kiss, and a look
which said, "Forgive and forget." That satisfied Amy; and when she got
home she found the vases paraded on the parlor chimney-piece, with a
great bouquet in each. "The reward of merit for a magnanimous March," as
Laurie announced with a flourish.

"You've a deal more principle and generosity and nobleness of character
than I ever gave you credit for, Amy. You've behaved sweetly, and I
respect you with all my heart," said Jo warmly, as they brushed their
hair together late that night.

"Yes, we all do, and love her for being so ready to forgive. It must
have been dreadfully hard, after working so long, and setting your heart
on selling your own pretty things. I don't believe I could have done it
as kindly as you did," added Beth from her pillow.

"Why, girls, you needn't praise me so; I only did as I'd be done by. You
laugh at me when I say I want to be a lady, but I mean a true
gentlewoman in mind and manners, and I try to do it as far as I know
how. I can't explain exactly, but I want to be above the little
meannesses and follies and faults that spoil so many women. I'm far from
it now, but I do my best, and hope in time to be what mother is."

Amy spoke earnestly, and Jo said, with a cordial hug,--

"I understand now what you mean, and I'll never laugh at you again. You
are getting on faster than you think, and I'll take lessons of you in
true politeness, for you've learned the secret, I believe. Try away,
deary; you'll get your reward some day, and no one will be more
delighted than I shall."

A week later Amy did get her reward, and poor Jo found it hard to be
delighted. A letter came from Aunt Carrol, and Mrs. March's face was
illuminated to such a degree, when she read it, that Jo and Beth, who
were with her, demanded what the glad tidings were.

"Aunt Carrol is going abroad next month, and wants--"

"Me to go with her!" burst in Jo, flying out of her chair in an
uncontrollable rapture.

"No, dear, not you; it's Amy."

"O mother! she's too young; it's my turn first. I've wanted it so
long--it would do me so much good, and be so altogether splendid--I
_must_ go."

"I'm afraid it's impossible, Jo. Aunt says Amy, decidedly, and it is not
for us to dictate when she offers such a favor."

"It's always so. Amy has all the fun and I have all the work. It isn't
fair, oh, it isn't fair!" cried Jo passionately.

"I'm afraid it is partly your own fault, dear. When Aunt spoke to me the
other day, she regretted your blunt manners and too independent spirit;
and here she writes, as if quoting something you had said,--'I planned
at first to ask Jo; but as "favors burden her," and she "hates French,"
I think I won't venture to invite her. Amy is more docile, will make a
good companion for Flo, and receive gratefully any help the trip may
give her.'"

"Oh, my tongue, my abominable tongue! why can't I learn to keep it
quiet?" groaned Jo, remembering words which had been her undoing. When
she had heard the explanation of the quoted phrases, Mrs. March said
sorrowfully,--

"I wish you could have gone, but there is no hope of it this time; so
try to bear it cheerfully, and don't sadden Amy's pleasure by reproaches
or regrets."

"I'll try," said Jo, winking hard, as she knelt down to pick up the
basket she had joyfully upset. "I'll take a leaf out of her book, and
try not only to seem glad, but to be so, and not grudge her one minute
of happiness; but it won't be easy, for it is a dreadful
disappointment;" and poor Jo bedewed the little fat pincushion she held
with several very bitter tears.

"Jo, dear, I'm very selfish, but I couldn't spare you, and I'm glad you
are not going quite yet," whispered Beth, embracing her, basket and all,
with such a clinging touch and loving face, that Jo felt comforted in
spite of the sharp regret that made her want to box her own ears, and
humbly beg Aunt Carrol to burden her with this favor, and see how
gratefully she would bear it.

By the time Amy came in, Jo was able to take her part in the family
jubilation; not quite as heartily as usual, perhaps, but without
repinings at Amy's good fortune. The young lady herself received the
news as tidings of great joy, went about in a solemn sort of rapture,
and began to sort her colors and pack her pencils that evening, leaving
such trifles as clothes, money, and passports to those less absorbed in
visions of art than herself.

"It isn't a mere pleasure trip to me, girls," she said impressively, as
she scraped her best palette. "It will decide my career; for if I have
any genius, I shall find it out in Rome, and will do something to prove
it."

"Suppose you haven't?" said Jo, sewing away, with red eyes, at the new
collars which were to be handed over to Amy.

"Then I shall come home and teach drawing for my living," replied the
aspirant for fame, with philosophic composure; but she made a wry face
at the prospect, and scratched away at her palette as if bent on
vigorous measures before she gave up her hopes.

"No, you won't; you hate hard work, and you'll marry some rich man, and
come home to sit in the lap of luxury all your days," said Jo.

"Your predictions sometimes come to pass, but I don't believe that one
will. I'm sure I wish it would, for if I can't be an artist myself, I
should like to be able to help those who are," said Amy, smiling, as if
the part of Lady Bountiful would suit her better than that of a poor
drawing-teacher.

"Hum!" said Jo, with a sigh; "if you wish it you'll have it, for your
wishes are always granted--mine never."

"Would you like to go?" asked Amy, thoughtfully patting her nose with
her knife.

"Rather!"

"Well, in a year or two I'll send for you, and we'll dig in the Forum
for relics, and carry out all the plans we've made so many times."

"Thank you; I'll remind you of your promise when that joyful day comes,
if it ever does," returned Jo, accepting the vague but magnificent offer
as gratefully as she could.

There was not much time for preparation, and the house was in a ferment
till Amy was off. Jo bore up very well till the last flutter of blue
ribbon vanished, when she retired to her refuge, the garret, and cried
till she couldn't cry any more. Amy likewise bore up stoutly till the
steamer sailed; then, just as the gangway was about to be withdrawn, it
suddenly came over her that a whole ocean was soon to roll between her
and those who loved her best, and she clung to Laurie, the last
lingerer, saying with a sob,--

"Oh, take care of them for me; and if anything should happen--"

"I will, dear, I will; and if anything happens, I'll come and comfort
you," whispered Laurie, little dreaming that he would be called upon to
keep his word.

So Amy sailed away to find the old world, which is always new and
beautiful to young eyes, while her father and friend watched her from
the shore, fervently hoping that none but gentle fortunes would befall
the happy-hearted girl, who waved her hand to them till they could see
nothing but the summer sunshine dazzling on the sea.

                       [Illustration: Tail-piece]

             [Illustration: Flo and I ordered a hansom-cab]

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

completion: Mrs. Chester's fair is a small, select affair; only the most genteel girls in the area are being asked to take charge of tables. That includes Amy, but not Jo, who tends to be clumsy. Amy is put in charge of the art table, since she made many of the things that are on it for sale. The day before the fair, as they are setting up, Mrs. Chester asks Amy to let May be in charge of the art table instead. May Chester has been jealous of Amy in general, and the Chesters are also offended because of Jo's rude imitation of May Chester when she visited the Lambs . Amy is hurt and doesn't understand what's going on. She offers to withdraw from the fair entirely, but Mrs. Chester starts to feel bad and insists that she take the flower table. Amy agrees. May starts to feel guilty, because Amy has spent so much time and energy arranging the art table and making things for it. She offers to let Amy take her own things to the flower table. Amy misunderstands and thinks that May is scorning her wares; she sweeps them into her apron and walks away. Amy spends the last few hours of her evening trying to get the flower table in shape. Before she came over, it was being run by some of the little girls, and it's pretty disastrous. When Amy goes home that evening, her family are indignant about the snub that she's received. Her sisters think she should withdraw from the fair, but Amy and her mother agree that it's better to turn the other cheek. The next morning, when Amy is putting the finishing touches on her table, she comes across an illustration with the slogan "love thy neighbor as thyself." She looks over at May at the art table and notices how empty the table seems without her wares on it. Amy overhears some of the other girls saying that she was selfish and rude to take her wares away from the art table. Between this criticism and the "love thy neighbor" reminder, she goes over and offers May the wares again. May gratefully accepts. The atmosphere is cleared by Amy's kindness; things go OK with the flower table from here on out. However, the first day of the fair drags for her; the flower table isn't very popular, because it's summer and people can just pick flowers. Meanwhile, people crowd around May at the art table. Amy goes home in the evening, worn out and depressed. Her family sympathizes with her. Laurie arrives home for the weekend from college. Jo tells him what has been happening. Laurie arranges to donate some of the exotic flowers from his grandfather's garden to Amy's table for tomorrow. He also arranges for a group of young men he knows from college to go to the fair and buy things from Amy. The next day, the fair is entirely different. Amy's table is much more popular, due to the flowers that Laurie donated and the presence of Jo, laughing and chatting. At one point, Jo scopes out the rest of the fair. She goes to see May at the art table, and May is polite and seems sorry for her pettiness earlier. Jo thinks May is hiding Amy's wares, because they're nowhere to be seen, but May explains that Amy's things have sold out. Jo returns to the flower table and tells everyone about May's change of heart. Laurie orders his college friends to go and buy the rest of the stuff from May's table, including the vases that May herself painted. Aunt Carrol and Mrs. March are also attending the fair. Aunt Carrol learns about what happened and about Amy's good behavior. She says something to Mrs. March, who smiles. That evening, Amy's sisters praise her exemplary behavior. A week later, Mrs. March receives a letter from Aunt Carrol. The Carrol family is going to Europe, and they want to take Amy with them! Jo is very disappointed; she always thought that she would get to go to Europe as Aunt March's companion. Her mother tells her that the letter explains the aunts' change of heart: since Jo said that she hates favors and can't learn French, and since Amy is more polite and cultured, they're taking Amy. When Amy comes home and learns about her opportunity, she is very excited. She considers it a working holiday - she's going to try and make her way as an artist in Rome. The preparations for Amy's departure are rapid. At the last minute, before her family say goodbye to her on board the ship, she clings to Laurie. She asks Laurie to take care of her family while she's gone. Laurie promises to do so - and to come see her in Europe if she ever needs him.


prompt:
Chapter: XXXI. OUR FOREIGN CORRESPONDENT.

                                                    "LONDON.
    "DEAREST PEOPLE,--

    "Here I really sit at a front window of the Bath Hotel,
    Piccadilly. It's not a fashionable place, but uncle stopped here
    years ago, and won't go anywhere else; however, we don't mean to
    stay long, so it's no great matter. Oh, I can't begin to tell
    you how I enjoy it all! I never can, so I'll only give you bits
    out of my note-book, for I've done nothing but sketch and
    scribble since I started.

    "I sent a line from Halifax, when I felt pretty miserable, but
    after that I got on delightfully, seldom ill, on deck all day,
    with plenty of pleasant people to amuse me. Every one was very
    kind to me, especially the officers. Don't laugh, Jo; gentlemen
    really are very necessary aboard ship, to hold on to, or to wait
    upon one; and as they have nothing to do, it's a mercy to make
    them useful, otherwise they would smoke themselves to death, I'm
    afraid.

        [Illustration: "Every one was very kind, especially the
                         officers."--Page 378.]

    "Aunt and Flo were poorly all the way, and liked to be let
    alone, so when I had done what I could for them, I went and
    enjoyed myself. Such walks on deck, such sunsets, such splendid
    air and waves! It was almost as exciting as riding a fast
    horse, when we went rushing on so grandly. I wish Beth could
    have come, it would have done her so much good; as for Jo, she
    would have gone up and sat on the main-top jib, or whatever the
    high thing is called, made friends with the engineers, and
    tooted on the captain's speaking-trumpet, she'd have been in
    such a state of rapture.

    "It was all heavenly, but I was glad to see the Irish coast, and
    found it very lovely, so green and sunny, with brown cabins here
    and there, ruins on some of the hills, and gentlemen's
    country-seats in the valleys, with deer feeding in the parks. It
    was early in the morning, but I didn't regret getting up to see
    it, for the bay was full of little boats, the shore _so_
    picturesque, and a rosy sky overhead. I never shall forget it.

    "At Queenstown one of my new acquaintances left us,--Mr.
    Lennox,--and when I said something about the Lakes of Killarney,
    he sighed and sung, with a look at me,--

        'Oh, have you e'er heard of Kate Kearney?
         She lives on the banks of Killarney;
         From the glance of her eye,
         Shun danger and fly,
         For fatal's the glance of Kate Kearney.'

    Wasn't that nonsensical?

    "We only stopped at Liverpool a few hours. It's a dirty, noisy
    place, and I was glad to leave it. Uncle rushed out and bought a
    pair of dog-skin gloves, some ugly, thick shoes, and an
    umbrella, and got shaved _à la_ mutton-chop, the first thing.
    Then he flattered himself that he looked like a true Briton; but
    the first time he had the mud cleaned off his shoes, the little
    bootblack knew that an American stood in them, and said, with a
    grin, 'There yer har, sir. I've give 'em the latest Yankee
    shine.' It amused uncle immensely. Oh, I _must_ tell you what
    that absurd Lennox did! He got his friend Ward, who came on with
    us, to order a bouquet for me, and the first thing I saw in my
    room was a lovely one, with 'Robert Lennox's compliments,' on
    the card. Wasn't that fun, girls? I like travelling.

    "I never _shall_ get to London if I don't hurry. The trip was
    like riding through a long picture-gallery, full of lovely
    landscapes. The farmhouses were my delight; with thatched roofs,
    ivy up to the eaves, latticed windows, and stout women with rosy
    children at the doors. The very cattle looked more tranquil than
    ours, as they stood knee-deep in clover, and the hens had a
    contented cluck, as if they never got nervous, like Yankee
    biddies. Such perfect color I never saw,--the grass so green,
    sky so blue, grain so yellow, woods so dark,--I was in a rapture
    all the way. So was Flo; and we kept bouncing from one side to
    the other, trying to see everything while we were whisking along
    at the rate of sixty miles an hour. Aunt was tired and went to
    sleep, but uncle read his guide-book, and wouldn't be astonished
    at anything. This is the way we went on: Amy, flying up,--'Oh,
    that must be Kenilworth, that gray place among the trees!' Flo,
    darting to my window,--'How sweet! We must go there some time,
    won't we, papa?' Uncle, calmly admiring his boots,--'No, my
    dear, not unless you want beer; that's a brewery.'

    "A pause,--then Flo cried out, 'Bless me, there's a gallows and
    a man going up.' 'Where, where?' shrieks Amy, staring out at two
    tall posts with a cross-beam and some dangling chains. 'A
    colliery,' remarks uncle, with a twinkle of the eye. 'Here's a
    lovely flock of lambs all lying down,' says Amy. 'See, papa,
    aren't they pretty!' added Flo sentimentally. 'Geese, young
    ladies,' returns uncle, in a tone that keeps us quiet till Flo
    settles down to enjoy 'The Flirtations of Capt. Cavendish,' and
    I have the scenery all to myself.

    "Of course it rained when we got to London, and there was
    nothing to be seen but fog and umbrellas. We rested, unpacked,
    and shopped a little between the showers. Aunt Mary got me some
    new things, for I came off in such a hurry I wasn't half ready.
    A white hat and blue feather, a muslin dress to match, and the
    loveliest mantle you ever saw. Shopping in Regent Street is
    perfectly splendid; things seem so cheap--nice ribbons only
    sixpence a yard. I laid in a stock, but shall get my gloves in
    Paris. Doesn't that sound sort of elegant and rich?

    "Flo and I, for the fun of it, ordered a hansom cab, while aunt
    and uncle were out, and went for a drive, though we learned
    afterward that it wasn't the thing for young ladies to ride in
    them alone. It was so droll! for when we were shut in by the
    wooden apron, the man drove so fast that Flo was frightened, and
    told me to stop him. But he was up outside behind somewhere, and
    I couldn't get at him. He didn't hear me call, nor see me flap
    my parasol in front, and there we were, quite helpless, rattling
    away, and whirling around corners at a break-neck pace. At last,
    in my despair, I saw a little door in the roof, and on poking it
    open, a red eye appeared, and a beery voice said,--

    "'Now then, mum?'

    "I gave my order as soberly as I could, and slamming down the
    door, with an 'Aye, aye, mum,' the man made his horse walk, as
    if going to a funeral. I poked again, and said, 'A little
    faster;' then off he went, helter-skelter, as before, and we
    resigned ourselves to our fate.

    "To-day was fair and we went to Hyde Park, close by, for we are
    more aristocratic than we look. The Duke of Devonshire lives
    near. I often see his footmen lounging at the back gate; and the
    Duke of Wellington's house is not far off. Such sights as I saw,
    my dear! It was as good as Punch, for there were fat dowagers
    rolling about in their red and yellow coaches, with gorgeous
    Jeameses in silk stockings and velvet coats, up behind, and
    powdered coachmen in front. Smart maids, with the rosiest
    children I ever saw; handsome girls, looking half asleep;
    dandies, in queer English hats and lavender kids, lounging
    about, and tall soldiers, in short red jackets and muffin caps
    stuck on one side, looking so funny I longed to sketch them.

    "Rotten Row means '_Route de Roi_,' or the king's way; but now
    it's more like a riding-school than anything else. The horses
    are splendid, and the men, especially the grooms, ride well; but
    the women are stiff, and bounce, which isn't according to our
    rules. I longed to show them a tearing American gallop, for they
    trotted solemnly up and down, in their scant habits and high
    hats, looking like the women in a toy Noah's Ark. Every one
    rides,--old men, stout ladies, little children,--and the young
    folks do a deal of flirting here; I saw a pair exchange
    rosebuds, for it's the thing to wear one in the button-hole, and
    I thought it rather a nice little idea.

    "In the P.M. to Westminster Abbey; but don't expect me to
    describe it, that's impossible--so I'll only say it was sublime!
    This evening we are going to see Fechter, which will be an
    appropriate end to the happiest day of my life.

                                                          "MIDNIGHT.

    "It's very late, but I can't let my letter go in the morning
    without telling you what happened last evening. Who do you think
    came in, as we were at tea? Laurie's English friends, Fred and
    Frank Vaughn! I was _so_ surprised, for I shouldn't have known
    them but for the cards. Both are tall fellows, with whiskers;
    Fred handsome in the English style, and Frank much better, for
    he only limps slightly, and uses no crutches. They had heard
    from Laurie where we were to be, and came to ask us to their
    house; but uncle won't go, so we shall return the call, and see
    them as we can. They went to the theatre with us, and we did
    have _such_ a good time, for Frank devoted himself to Flo, and
    Fred and I talked over past, present, and future fun as if we
    had known each other all our days. Tell Beth Frank asked for
    her, and was sorry to hear of her ill health. Fred laughed when
    I spoke of Jo, and sent his 'respectful compliments to the big
    hat.' Neither of them had forgotten Camp Laurence, or the fun we
    had there. What ages ago it seems, doesn't it?

    "Aunt is tapping on the wall for the third time, so I _must_
    stop. I really feel like a dissipated London fine lady, writing
    here so late, with my room full of pretty things, and my head a
    jumble of parks, theatres, new gowns, and gallant creatures who
    say 'Ah!' and twirl their blond mustaches with the true English
    lordliness. I long to see you all, and in spite of my nonsense
    am, as ever, your loving
                                                               AMY."

    "DEAR GIRLS,--                                           "PARIS.

    "In my last I told you about our London visit,--how kind the
    Vaughns were, and what pleasant parties they made for us. I
    enjoyed the trips to Hampton Court and the Kensington Museum
    more than anything else,--for at Hampton I saw Raphael's
    cartoons, and, at the Museum, rooms full of pictures by Turner,
    Lawrence, Reynolds, Hogarth, and the other great creatures. The
    day in Richmond Park was charming, for we had a regular English
    picnic, and I had more splendid oaks and groups of deer than I
    could copy; also heard a nightingale, and saw larks go up. We
    'did' London to our hearts' content, thanks to Fred and Frank,
    and were sorry to go away; for, though English people are slow
    to take you in, when they once make up their minds to do it they
    cannot be outdone in hospitality, _I_ think. The Vaughns hope to
    meet us in Rome next winter, and I shall be dreadfully
    disappointed if they don't, for Grace and I are great friends,
    and the boys very nice fellows,--especially Fred.

    "Well, we were hardly settled here, when he turned up again,
    saying he had come for a holiday, and was going to Switzerland.
    Aunt looked sober at first, but he was so cool about it she
    couldn't say a word; and now we get on nicely, and are very glad
    he came, for he speaks French like a native, and I don't know
    what we should do without him. Uncle doesn't know ten words, and
    insists on talking English very loud, as if that would make
    people understand him. Aunt's pronunciation is old-fashioned,
    and Flo and I, though we flattered ourselves that we knew a good
    deal, find we don't, and are very grateful to have Fred do the
    '_parley vooing_,' as uncle calls it.

    "Such delightful times as we are having! sight-seeing from
    morning till night, stopping for nice lunches in the gay
    _cafés_, and meeting with all sorts of droll adventures. Rainy
    days I spend in the Louvre, revelling in pictures. Jo would turn
    up her naughty nose at some of the finest, because she has no
    soul for art; but _I_ have, and I'm cultivating eye and taste as
    fast as I can. She would like the relics of great people better,
    for I've seen her Napoleon's cocked hat and gray coat, his
    baby's cradle and his old toothbrush; also Marie Antoinette's
    little shoe, the ring of Saint Denis, Charlemagne's sword, and
    many other interesting things. I'll talk for hours about them
    when I come, but haven't time to write.

    "The Palais Royale is a heavenly place,--so full of _bijouterie_
    and lovely things that I'm nearly distracted because I can't buy
    them. Fred wanted to get me some, but of course I didn't allow
    it. Then the Bois and the Champs Elysées are _très magnifique_.
    I've seen the imperial family several times,--the emperor an
    ugly, hard-looking man, the empress pale and pretty, but dressed
    in bad taste, _I_ thought,--purple dress, green hat, and yellow
    gloves. Little Nap. is a handsome boy, who sits chatting to his
    tutor, and kisses his hand to the people as he passes in his
    four-horse barouche, with postilions in red satin jackets, and a
    mounted guard before and behind.

      [Illustration: I've seen the imperial family several times]

    "We often walk in the Tuileries Gardens, for they are lovely,
    though the antique Luxembourg Gardens suit me better. Père la
    Chaise is very curious, for many of the tombs are like small
    rooms, and, looking in, one sees a table, with images or
    pictures of the dead, and chairs for the mourners to sit in
    when they come to lament. That is so Frenchy.

    "Our rooms are on the Rue de Rivoli, and, sitting in the
    balcony, we look up and down the long, brilliant street. It is
    so pleasant that we spend our evenings talking there, when too
    tired with our day's work to go out. Fred is very entertaining,
    and is altogether the most agreeable young man I ever
    knew,--except Laurie, whose manners are more charming. I wish
    Fred was dark, for I don't fancy light men; however, the Vaughns
    are very rich, and come of an excellent family, so I won't find
    fault with their yellow hair, as my own is yellower.

    "Next week we are off to Germany and Switzerland; and, as we
    shall travel fast, I shall only be able to give you hasty
    letters. I keep my diary, and try to 'remember correctly and
    describe clearly all that I see and admire,' as father advised.
    It is good practice for me, and, with my sketch-book, will give
    you a better idea of my tour than these scribbles.

    "Adieu; I embrace you tenderly.                     VOTRE AMIE."

    "MY DEAR MAMMA,--                                   "HEIDELBERG.

    "Having a quiet hour before we leave for Berne, I'll try to tell
    you what has happened, for some of it is very important, as you
    will see.

    "The sail up the Rhine was perfect, and I just sat and enjoyed
    it with all my might. Get father's old guide-books, and read
    about it; I haven't words beautiful enough to describe it. At
    Coblentz we had a lovely time, for some students from Bonn, with
    whom Fred got acquainted on the boat, gave us a serenade. It was
    a moonlight night, and, about one o'clock, Flo and I were waked
    by the most delicious music under our windows. We flew up, and
    hid behind the curtains; but sly peeps showed us Fred and the
    students singing away down below. It was the most romantic thing
    I ever saw,--the river, the bridge of boats, the great fortress
    opposite, moonlight everywhere, and music fit to melt a heart of
    stone.

    "When they were done we threw down some flowers, and saw them
    scramble for them, kiss their hands to the invisible ladies, and
    go laughing away,--to smoke and drink beer, I suppose. Next
    morning Fred showed me one of the crumpled flowers in his
    vest-pocket, and looked very sentimental. I laughed at him, and
    said I didn't throw it, but Flo, which seemed to disgust him,
    for he tossed it out of the window, and turned sensible again.
    I'm afraid I'm going to have trouble with that boy, it begins to
    look like it.

    "The baths at Nassau were very gay, so was Baden-Baden, where
    Fred lost some money, and I scolded him. He needs some one to
    look after him when Frank is not with him. Kate said once she
    hoped he'd marry soon, and I quite agree with her that it would
    be well for him. Frankfort was delightful; I saw Goethe's house,
    Schiller's statue, and Dannecker's famous 'Ariadne.' It was very
    lovely, but I should have enjoyed it more if I had known the
    story better. I didn't like to ask, as every one knew it, or
    pretended they did. I wish Jo would tell me all about it; I
    ought to have read more, for I find I don't know anything, and
    it mortifies me.

    "Now comes the serious part,--for it happened here, and Fred is
    just gone. He has been so kind and jolly that we all got quite
    fond of him; I never thought of anything but a travelling
    friendship, till the serenade night. Since then I've begun to
    feel that the moonlight walks, balcony talks, and daily
    adventures were something more to him than fun. I haven't
    flirted, mother, truly, but remembered what you said to me, and
    have done my very best. I can't help it if people like me; I
    don't try to make them, and it worries me if I don't care for
    them, though Jo says I haven't got any heart. Now I know mother
    will shake her head, and the girls say, 'Oh, the mercenary
    little wretch!' but I've made up my mind, and, if Fred asks me,
    I shall accept him, though I'm not madly in love. I like him,
    and we get on comfortably together. He is handsome, young,
    clever enough, and very rich,--ever so much richer than the
    Laurences. I don't think his family would object, and I should
    be very happy, for they are all kind, well-bred, generous
    people, and they like me. Fred, as the eldest twin, will have
    the estate, I suppose, and such a splendid one as it is! A city
    house in a fashionable street, not so showy as our big houses,
    but twice as comfortable, and full of solid luxury, such as
    English people believe in. I like it, for it's genuine. I've
    seen the plate, the family jewels, the old servants, and
    pictures of the country place, with its park, great house,
    lovely grounds, and fine horses. Oh, it would be all I should
    ask! and I'd rather have it than any title such as girls snap up
    so readily, and find nothing behind. I may be mercenary, but I
    hate poverty, and don't mean to bear it a minute longer than I
    can help. One of us _must_ marry well; Meg didn't, Jo won't,
    Beth can't yet, so I shall, and make everything cosey all round.
    I wouldn't marry a man I hated or despised. You may be sure of
    that; and, though Fred is not my model hero, he does very well,
    and, in time, I should get fond enough of him if he was very
    fond of me, and let me do just as I liked. So I've been turning
    the matter over in my mind the last week, for it was impossible
    to help seeing that Fred liked me. He said nothing, but little
    things showed it; he never goes with Flo, always gets on my side
    of the carriage, table, or promenade, looks sentimental when we
    are alone, and frowns at any one else who ventures to speak to
    me. Yesterday, at dinner, when an Austrian officer stared at us,
    and then said something to his friend,--a rakish-looking
    baron,--about '_ein wonderschönes Blöndchen_,' Fred looked as
    fierce as a lion, and cut his meat so savagely, it nearly flew
    off his plate. He isn't one of the cool, stiff Englishmen, but
    is rather peppery, for he has Scotch blood in him, as one might
    guess from his bonnie blue eyes.

    "Well, last evening we went up to the castle about sunset,--at
    least all of us but Fred, who was to meet us there, after going
    to the Post Restante for letters. We had a charming time poking
    about the ruins, the vaults where the monster tun is, and the
    beautiful gardens made by the elector, long ago, for his English
    wife. I liked the great terrace best, for the view was divine;
    so, while the rest went to see the rooms inside, I sat there
    trying to sketch the gray stone lion's head on the wall, with
    scarlet woodbine sprays hanging round it. I felt as if I'd got
    into a romance, sitting there, watching the Neckar rolling
    through the valley, listening to the music of the Austrian band
    below, and waiting for my lover, like a real story-book girl. I
    had a feeling that something was going to happen, and I was
    ready for it. I didn't feel blushy or quakey, but quite cool,
    and only a little excited.

[Illustration: Trying to sketch the gray-stone lion's head on the wall]

    "By and by I heard Fred's voice, and then he came hurrying
    through the great arch to find me. He looked so troubled that I
    forgot all about myself, and asked what the matter was. He said
    he'd just got a letter begging him to come home, for Frank was
    very ill; so he was going at once, in the night train, and only
    had time to say good-by. I was very sorry for him, and
    disappointed for myself, but only for a minute, because he
    said, as he shook hands,--and said it in a way that I could not
    mistake,--'I shall soon come back; you won't forget me, Amy?'

    "I didn't promise, but I looked at him, and he seemed satisfied,
    and there was no time for anything but messages and good-byes,
    for he was off in an hour, and we all miss him very much. I know
    he wanted to speak, but I think, from something he once hinted,
    that he had promised his father not to do anything of the sort
    yet awhile, for he is a rash boy, and the old gentleman dreads a
    foreign daughter-in-law. We shall soon meet in Rome; and then,
    if I don't change my mind, I'll say 'Yes, thank you,' when he
    says 'Will you, please?'

    "Of course this is all _very private_, but I wished you to know
    what was going on. Don't be anxious about me; remember I am your
    'prudent Amy,' and be sure I will do nothing rashly. Send me as
    much advice as you like; I'll use it if I can. I wish I could
    see you for a good talk, Marmee. Love and trust me.

                                    "Ever your                 AMY."

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

completion: This chapter consists of some of Amy's letters home to her family from Europe. The first letter is written from London. Amy, along with her Aunt and Uncle Carrol and her cousin Flo, is staying at a hotel in Piccadilly. Amy says that she had a pretty good time on board ship on the way to London, after she got over her first seasickness. Her aunt and cousin were seasick most of the time, so she spent a lot of time alone on deck watching the waves. Their ship docked on the coast of Ireland, which was beautiful. One of the men Amy met on board ship, Mr. Lennox, recited a limerick for her before he left. The ship went on to Liverpool for a few hours, where Uncle Carrol bought the right accessories and got the right haircut to make him look British - or at least that's what he thinks. Also at Liverpool, one of Mr. Lennox's friends brought Amy a bouquet from him. Amy and her family traveled across the country from Liverpool to London. The journey was really picturesque; Amy and Flo were excited about everything, Uncle Carrol calmly read his guidebook, and Aunt Carrol went to sleep. When they arrived in London, it was raining. The first thing Aunt Carrol did was to buy Amy some nice clothes. While Aunt and Uncle Carrol took a nap in their hotel room, Amy and Flo went for a ride in a hansom cab, although later they found out that they had behaved improperly. The cab driver would only go really fast or really slow. Most recently, the family went to Hyde Park, an extremely fashionable park in an upper-class part of London. They did some fun people-watching and saw a lot of aristocrats. They also went along a fancy boulevard called "Rotten Row," which is a corruption of the "Route de Roi" or "Way of the King." Many people were riding, and Amy thought it was funny to see English-style riding instead of the American-style. In the evening, they went to Westminster Abbey. Amy doesn't try to describe it because it was too fantastic. That's the end of the first letter, but then Amy adds a P.S. to say that Laurie's English friends, the twins Fred and Frank Vaughn, came to see her. She and Fred, who is quite handsome now, talked about old times. Amy's second letter is written from Paris some time later. She refers to other letters from London that aren't included in the novel, reminding her family about sightseeing trips that she went on with Fred and Frank Vaughn. Fred, she says, was especially nice. Now Amy and her aunt, uncle, and cousin are in Paris, and Fred has turned up there to visit them! At first Amy's aunt disapproved of his obvious romantic interest, but now they're glad he's there, because he's the only one of them who can speak French. Amy is enjoying sightseeing in Paris, especially the art in the Louvre and the relics of famous people. Amy's also admiring the jewelry that she sees. Fred wants to buy her some, but she won't let him. Amy describes walks in the famous garden, the Jardin des Tuileries, and the view from her hotel window. She says Fred is with them a lot, and that he's very entertaining and has great manners. Next week, Amy says, they are going to Germany and Switzerland, and she won't be able to write as many letters because they'll be moving around. That's the end of this letter. The next letter is written from Heidelberg, in Germany, and addressed just to Mrs. March. Amy begins by saying that she has a little time before they go to Berne, in Switzerland, and needs to tell her mother what has happened. One night, Amy says, they went sailing up the Rhine in the moonlight with Fred. It was beautiful, and a group of students they met serenaded her and her cousin. That night, after they came home, Fred and the students serenaded them again under their windows. It was very romantic, and they threw flowers down to the men. The next day, Fred showed Amy a flower he was keeping in his pocket. She said that Flo had thrown it, and he threw it away, but she's starting to realize that he's interested in her. Amy tells her mother that she never realized Fred was interested in her, and she hasn't really fallen in love with him. However, she's decided that, if he asks her to marry him, she will say yes. Amy tells her mother all Fred's advantages: he's handsome and wealthy and smart, he loves her, and his family like her. Isn't that enough? Amy writes that someone in the family has to marry well - Meg didn't, Jo won't, and Beth can't . Their family needs money and good connections, so she's going to make them! Yesterday evening, Amy says, she was sitting in a castle that they were touring, waiting for Fred to come back from picking up his letters. She felt like a girl in a storybook. Fred came rushing in upset about something. He received a letter asking him to come home because his brother, Frank, is very sick. Fred asked Amy not to forget him. She wouldn't make any promises, but she gave him an affectionate look, and he seemed to accept it as a promise. Amy tells her mother that she expects Fred to come back and propose to her, and she's planning to say yes. And that's the end of the letter!