prompt:
Chapter: XXVIII. DOMESTIC EXPERIENCES.

Like most other young matrons, Meg began her married life with the
determination to be a model housekeeper. John should find home a
paradise; he should always see a smiling face, should fare sumptuously
every day, and never know the loss of a button. She brought so much
love, energy, and cheerfulness to the work that she could not but
succeed, in spite of some obstacles. Her paradise was not a tranquil
one; for the little woman fussed, was over-anxious to please, and
bustled about like a true Martha, cumbered with many cares. She was too
tired, sometimes, even to smile; John grew dyspeptic after a course of
dainty dishes, and ungratefully demanded plain fare. As for buttons, she
soon learned to wonder where they went, to shake her head over the
carelessness of men, and to threaten to make him sew them on himself,
and then see if _his_ work would stand impatient tugs and clumsy fingers
any better than hers.

They were very happy, even after they discovered that they couldn't live
on love alone. John did not find Meg's beauty diminished, though she
beamed at him from behind the familiar coffee-pot; nor did Meg miss any
of the romance from the daily parting, when her husband followed up his
kiss with the tender inquiry, "Shall I send home veal or mutton for
dinner, darling?" The little house ceased to be a glorified bower, but
it became a home, and the young couple soon felt that it was a change
for the better. At first they played keep-house, and frolicked over it
like children; then John took steadily to business, feeling the cares of
the head of a family upon his shoulders; and Meg laid by her cambric
wrappers, put on a big apron, and fell to work, as before said, with
more energy than discretion.

While the cooking mania lasted she went through Mrs. Cornelius's Receipt
Book as if it were a mathematical exercise, working out the problems
with patience and care. Sometimes her family were invited in to help eat
up a too bounteous feast of successes, or Lotty would be privately
despatched with a batch of failures, which were to be concealed from all
eyes in the convenient stomachs of the little Hummels. An evening with
John over the account-books usually produced a temporary lull in the
culinary enthusiasm, and a frugal fit would ensue, during which the poor
man was put through a course of bread-pudding, hash, and warmed-over
coffee, which tried his soul, although he bore it with praiseworthy
fortitude. Before the golden mean was found, however, Meg added to her
domestic possessions what young couples seldom get on long without,--a
family jar.

Fired with a housewifely wish to see her store-room stocked with
home-made preserves, she undertook to put up her own currant jelly. John
was requested to order home a dozen or so of little pots, and an extra
quantity of sugar, for their own currants were ripe, and were to be
attended to at once. As John firmly believed that "my wife" was equal to
anything, and took a natural pride in her skill, he resolved that she
should be gratified, and their only crop of fruit laid by in a most
pleasing form for winter use. Home came four dozen delightful little
pots, half a barrel of sugar, and a small boy to pick the currants for
her. With her pretty hair tucked into a little cap, arms bared to the
elbow, and a checked apron which had a coquettish look in spite of the
bib, the young housewife fell to work, feeling no doubts about her
success; for hadn't she seen Hannah do it hundreds of times? The array
of pots rather amazed her at first, but John was so fond of jelly, and
the nice little jars would look so well on the top shelf, that Meg
resolved to fill them all, and spent a long day picking, boiling,
straining, and fussing over her jelly. She did her best; she asked
advice of Mrs. Cornelius; she racked her brain to remember what Hannah
did that she had left undone; she reboiled, resugared, and restrained,
but that dreadful stuff wouldn't "_jell_."

She longed to run home, bib and all, and ask mother to lend a hand, but
John and she had agreed that they would never annoy any one with their
private worries, experiments, or quarrels. They had laughed over that
last word as if the idea it suggested was a most preposterous one; but
they had held to their resolve, and whenever they could get on without
help they did so, and no one interfered, for Mrs. March had advised the
plan. So Meg wrestled alone with the refractory sweetmeats all that hot
summer day, and at five o'clock sat down in her topsy-turvy kitchen,
wrung her bedaubed hands, lifted up her voice and wept.

Now, in the first flush of the new life, she had often said,--

"My husband shall always feel free to bring a friend home whenever he
likes. I shall always be prepared; there shall be no flurry, no
scolding, no discomfort, but a neat house, a cheerful wife, and a good
dinner. John, dear, never stop to ask my leave, invite whom you please,
and be sure of a welcome from me."

How charming that was, to be sure! John quite glowed with pride to hear
her say it, and felt what a blessed thing it was to have a superior
wife. But, although they had had company from time to time, it never
happened to be unexpected, and Meg had never had an opportunity to
distinguish herself till now. It always happens so in this vale of
tears; there is an inevitability about such things which we can only
wonder at, deplore, and bear as we best can.

If John had not forgotten all about the jelly, it really would have been
unpardonable in him to choose that day, of all the days in the year, to
bring a friend home to dinner unexpectedly. Congratulating himself that
a handsome repast had been ordered that morning, feeling sure that it
would be ready to the minute, and indulging in pleasant anticipations of
the charming effect it would produce, when his pretty wife came running
out to meet him, he escorted his friend to his mansion, with the
irrepressible satisfaction of a young host and husband.

It is a world of disappointments, as John discovered when he reached the
Dove-cote. The front door usually stood hospitably open; now it was not
only shut, but locked, and yesterday's mud still adorned the steps. The
parlor-windows were closed and curtained, no picture of the pretty wife
sewing on the piazza, in white, with a distracting little bow in her
hair, or a bright-eyed hostess, smiling a shy welcome as she greeted her
guest. Nothing of the sort, for not a soul appeared, but a
sanguinary-looking boy asleep under the currant-bushes.

"I'm afraid something has happened. Step into the garden, Scott, while I
look up Mrs. Brooke," said John, alarmed at the silence and solitude.

Round the house he hurried, led by a pungent smell of burnt sugar, and
Mr. Scott strolled after him, with a queer look on his face. He paused
discreetly at a distance when Brooke disappeared; but he could both see
and hear, and, being a bachelor, enjoyed the prospect mightily.

In the kitchen reigned confusion and despair; one edition of jelly was
trickled from pot to pot, another lay upon the floor, and a third was
burning gayly on the stove. Lotty, with Teutonic phlegm, was calmly
eating bread and currant wine, for the jelly was still in a hopelessly
liquid state, while Mrs. Brooke, with her apron over her head, sat
sobbing dismally.

"My dearest girl, what is the matter?" cried John, rushing in, with
awful visions of scalded hands, sudden news of affliction, and secret
consternation at the thought of the guest in the garden.

"O John, I _am_ so tired and hot and cross and worried! I've been at it
till I'm all worn out. Do come and help me or I _shall_ die!" and the
exhausted housewife cast herself upon his breast, giving him a sweet
welcome in every sense of the word, for her pinafore had been baptized
at the same time as the floor.

"What worries you, dear? Has anything dreadful happened?" asked the
anxious John, tenderly kissing the crown of the little cap, which was
all askew.

"Yes," sobbed Meg despairingly.

"Tell me quick, then. Don't cry, I can bear anything better than that.
Out with it, love."

"The--the jelly won't jell and I don't know what to do!"

John Brooke laughed then as he never dared to laugh afterward; and the
derisive Scott smiled involuntarily as he heard the hearty peal, which
put the finishing stroke to poor Meg's woe.

"Is that all? Fling it out of window, and don't bother any more about
it. I'll buy you quarts if you want it; but for heaven's sake don't have
hysterics, for I've brought Jack Scott home to dinner, and--"

John got no further, for Meg cast him off, and clasped her hands with a
tragic gesture as she fell into a chair, exclaiming in a tone of mingled
indignation, reproach, and dismay,--

"A man to dinner, and everything in a mess! John Brooke, how _could_ you
do such a thing?"

"Hush, he's in the garden! I forgot the confounded jelly, but it can't
be helped now," said John, surveying the prospect with an anxious eye.

"You ought to have sent word, or told me this morning, and you ought to
have remembered how busy I was," continued Meg petulantly; for even
turtle-doves will peck when ruffled.

"I didn't know it this morning, and there was no time to send word, for
I met him on the way out. I never thought of asking leave, when you have
always told me to do as I liked. I never tried it before, and hang me if
I ever do again!" added John, with an aggrieved air.

"I should hope not! Take him away at once; I can't see him, and there
isn't any dinner."

"Well, I like that! Where's the beef and vegetables I sent home, and the
pudding you promised?" cried John, rushing to the larder.

"I hadn't time to cook anything; I meant to dine at mother's. I'm sorry,
but I was _so_ busy;" and Meg's tears began again.

John was a mild man, but he was human; and after a long day's work, to
come home tired, hungry, and hopeful, to find a chaotic house, an empty
table, and a cross wife was not exactly conducive to repose of mind or
manner. He restrained himself, however, and the little squall would have
blown over, but for one unlucky word.

"It's a scrape, I acknowledge; but if you will lend a hand, we'll pull
through, and have a good time yet. Don't cry, dear, but just exert
yourself a bit, and knock us up something to eat. We're both as hungry
as hunters, so we sha'n't mind what it is. Give us the cold meat, and
bread and cheese; we won't ask for jelly."

He meant it for a good-natured joke; but that one word sealed his fate.
Meg thought it was _too_ cruel to hint about her sad failure, and the
last atom of patience vanished as he spoke.

"You must get yourself out of the scrape as you can; I'm too used up to
'exert' myself for any one. It's like a man to propose a bone and vulgar
bread and cheese for company. I won't have anything of the sort in my
house. Take that Scott up to mother's, and tell him I'm away, sick,
dead,--anything. I won't see him, and you two can laugh at me and my
jelly as much as you like: you won't have anything else here;" and
having delivered her defiance all in one breath, Meg cast away her
pinafore, and precipitately left the field to bemoan herself in her own
room.

What those two creatures did in her absence, she never knew; but Mr.
Scott was not taken "up to mother's," and when Meg descended, after they
had strolled away together, she found traces of a promiscuous lunch
which filled her with horror. Lotty reported that they had eaten "a
much, and greatly laughed, and the master bid her throw away all the
sweet stuff, and hide the pots."

Meg longed to go and tell mother; but a sense of shame at her own
short-comings, of loyalty to John, "who might be cruel, but nobody
should know it," restrained her; and after a summary clearing up, she
dressed herself prettily, and sat down to wait for John to come and be
forgiven.

Unfortunately, John didn't come, not seeing the matter in that light. He
had carried it off as a good joke with Scott, excused his little wife as
well as he could, and played the host so hospitably that his friend
enjoyed the impromptu dinner, and promised to come again. But John was
angry, though he did not show it; he felt that Meg had got him into a
scrape, and then deserted him in his hour of need. "It wasn't fair to
tell a man to bring folks home any time, with perfect freedom, and when
he took you at your word, to flame up and blame him, and leave him in
the lurch, to be laughed at or pitied. No, by George, it wasn't! and Meg
must know it." He had fumed inwardly during the feast, but when the
flurry was over, and he strolled home, after seeing Scott off, a milder
mood came over him. "Poor little thing! it was hard upon her when she
tried so heartily to please me. She was wrong, of course, but then she
was young. I must be patient and teach her." He hoped she had not gone
home--he hated gossip and interference. For a minute he was ruffled
again at the mere thought of it; and then the fear that Meg would cry
herself sick softened his heart, and sent him on at a quicker pace,
resolving to be calm and kind, but firm, quite firm, and show her where
she had failed in her duty to her spouse.

Meg likewise resolved to be "calm and kind, but firm," and show _him_
his duty. She longed to run to meet him, and beg pardon, and be kissed
and comforted, as she was sure of being; but, of course, she did nothing
of the sort, and when she saw John coming, began to hum quite naturally,
as she rocked and sewed, like a lady of leisure in her best parlor.

John was a little disappointed not to find a tender Niobe; but, feeling
that his dignity demanded the first apology, he made none, only came
leisurely in, and laid himself upon the sofa, with the singularly
relevant remark,--

"We are going to have a new moon, my dear."

"I've no objection," was Meg's equally soothing remark.

A few other topics of general interest were introduced by Mr. Brooke,
and wet-blanketed by Mrs. Brooke, and conversation languished. John went
to one window, unfolded his paper, and wrapped himself in it,
figuratively speaking. Meg went to the other window, and sewed as if new
rosettes for her slippers were among the necessaries of life. Neither
spoke; both looked quite "calm and firm," and both felt desperately
uncomfortable.

          [Illustration: Both felt desperately uncomfortable]

"Oh dear," thought Meg, "married life is very trying, and does need
infinite patience, as well as love, as mother says." The word "mother"
suggested other maternal counsels, given long ago, and received with
unbelieving protests.

"John is a good man, but he has his faults, and you must learn to see
and bear with them, remembering your own. He is very decided, but never
will be obstinate, if you reason kindly, not oppose impatiently. He is
very accurate, and particular about the truth--a good trait, though you
call him 'fussy.' Never deceive him by look or word, Meg, and he will
give you the confidence you deserve, the support you need. He has a
temper, not like ours,--one flash, and then all over,--but the white,
still anger, that is seldom stirred, but once kindled, is hard to
quench. Be careful, very careful, not to wake this anger against
yourself, for peace and happiness depend on keeping his respect. Watch
yourself, be the first to ask pardon if you both err, and guard against
the little piques, misunderstandings, and hasty words that often pave
the way for bitter sorrow and regret."

These words came back to Meg, as she sat sewing in the sunset,
especially the last. This was the first serious disagreement; her own
hasty speeches sounded both silly and unkind, as she recalled them, her
own anger looked childish now, and thoughts of poor John coming home to
such a scene quite melted her heart. She glanced at him with tears in
her eyes, but he did not see them; she put down her work and got up,
thinking, "I _will_ be the first to say, 'Forgive me,'" but he did not
seem to hear her; she went very slowly across the room, for pride was
hard to swallow, and stood by him, but he did not turn his head. For a
minute she felt as if she really couldn't do it; then came the thought,
"This is the beginning, I'll do my part, and have nothing to reproach
myself with," and stooping down, she softly kissed her husband on the
forehead. Of course that settled it; the penitent kiss was better than a
world of words, and John had her on his knee in a minute, saying
tenderly,--

"It was too bad to laugh at the poor little jelly-pots. Forgive me,
dear, I never will again!"

But he did, oh bless you, yes, hundreds of times, and so did Meg, both
declaring that it was the sweetest jelly they ever made; for family
peace was preserved in that little family jar.

After this, Meg had Mr. Scott to dinner by special invitation, and
served him up a pleasant feast without a cooked wife for the first
course; on which occasion she was so gay and gracious, and made
everything go off so charmingly, that Mr. Scott told John he was a happy
fellow, and shook his head over the hardships of bachelorhood all the
way home.

In the autumn, new trials and experiences came to Meg. Sallie Moffat
renewed her friendship, was always running out for a dish of gossip at
the little house, or inviting "that poor dear" to come in and spend the
day at the big house. It was pleasant, for in dull weather Meg often
felt lonely; all were busy at home, John absent till night, and nothing
to do but sew, or read, or potter about. So it naturally fell out that
Meg got into the way of gadding and gossiping with her friend. Seeing
Sallie's pretty things made her long for such, and pity herself because
she had not got them. Sallie was very kind, and often offered her the
coveted trifles; but Meg declined them, knowing that John wouldn't like
it; and then this foolish little woman went and did what John disliked
infinitely worse.

She knew her husband's income, and she loved to feel that he trusted
her, not only with his happiness, but what some men seem to value
more,--his money. She knew where it was, was free to take what she
liked, and all he asked was that she should keep account of every penny,
pay bills once a month, and remember that she was a poor man's wife.
Till now, she had done well, been prudent and exact, kept her little
account-books neatly, and showed them to him monthly without fear. But
that autumn the serpent got into Meg's paradise, and tempted her, like
many a modern Eve, not with apples, but with dress. Meg didn't like to
be pitied and made to feel poor; it irritated her, but she was ashamed
to confess it, and now and then she tried to console herself by buying
something pretty, so that Sallie needn't think she had to economize. She
always felt wicked after it, for the pretty things were seldom
necessaries; but then they cost so little, it wasn't worth worrying
about; so the trifles increased unconsciously, and in the shopping
excursions she was no longer a passive looker-on.

But the trifles cost more than one would imagine; and when she cast up
her accounts at the end of the month, the sum total rather scared her.
John was busy that month, and left the bills to her; the next month he
was absent; but the third he had a grand quarterly settling up, and Meg
never forgot it. A few days before she had done a dreadful thing, and it
weighed upon her conscience. Sallie had been buying silks, and Meg
longed for a new one,--just a handsome light one for parties, her black
silk was so common, and thin things for evening wear were only proper
for girls. Aunt March usually gave the sisters a present of twenty-five
dollars apiece at New Year; that was only a month to wait, and here was
a lovely violet silk going at a bargain, and she had the money, if she
only dared to take it. John always said what was his was hers; but would
he think it right to spend not only the prospective five-and-twenty, but
another five-and-twenty out of the household fund? That was the
question. Sallie had urged her to do it, had offered to loan the money,
and with the best intentions in life, had tempted Meg beyond her
strength. In an evil moment the shopman held up the lovely, shimmering
folds, and said, "A bargain, I assure you, ma'am." She answered, "I'll
take it;" and it was cut off and paid for, and Sallie had exulted, and
she had laughed as if it were a thing of no consequence, and driven
away, feeling as if she had stolen something, and the police were after
her.

             [Illustration: A bargain, I assure you, ma'am]

When she got home, she tried to assuage the pangs of remorse by
spreading forth the lovely silk; but it looked less silvery now, didn't
become her, after all, and the words "fifty dollars" seemed stamped like
a pattern down each breadth. She put it away; but it haunted her, not
delightfully, as a new dress should, but dreadfully, like the ghost of a
folly that was not easily laid. When John got out his books that night,
Meg's heart sank, and for the first time in her married life, she was
afraid of her husband. The kind, brown eyes looked as if they could be
stern; and though he was unusually merry, she fancied he had found her
out, but didn't mean to let her know it. The house-bills were all paid,
the books all in order. John had praised her, and was undoing the old
pocket-book which they called the "bank," when Meg, knowing that it was
quite empty, stopped his hand, saying nervously,--

"You haven't seen my private expense book yet."

John never asked to see it; but she always insisted on his doing so, and
used to enjoy his masculine amazement at the queer things women wanted,
and made him guess what "piping" was, demand fiercely the meaning of a
"hug-me-tight," or wonder how a little thing composed of three rosebuds,
a bit of velvet, and a pair of strings, could possibly be a bonnet, and
cost five or six dollars. That night he looked as if he would like the
fun of quizzing her figures and pretending to be horrified at her
extravagance, as he often did, being particularly proud of his prudent
wife.

The little book was brought slowly out, and laid down before him. Meg
got behind his chair under pretence of smoothing the wrinkles out of his
tired forehead, and standing there, she said, with her panic increasing
with every word,--

"John, dear, I'm ashamed to show you my book, for I've really been
dreadfully extravagant lately. I go about so much I must have things,
you know, and Sallie advised my getting it, so I did; and my New-Year's
money will partly pay for it: but I was sorry after I'd done it, for I
knew you'd think it wrong in me."

John laughed, and drew her round beside him, saying good-humoredly,
"Don't go and hide. I won't beat you if you _have_ got a pair of killing
boots; I'm rather proud of my wife's feet, and don't mind if she does
pay eight or nine dollars for her boots, if they are good ones."

That had been one of her last "trifles," and John's eye had fallen on it
as he spoke. "Oh, what _will_ he say when he comes to that awful fifty
dollars!" thought Meg, with a shiver.

"It's worse than boots, it's a silk dress," she said, with the calmness
of desperation, for she wanted the worst over.

"Well, dear, what is the 'dem'd total,' as Mr. Mantalini says?"

That didn't sound like John, and she knew he was looking up at her with
the straightforward look that she had always been ready to meet and
answer with one as frank till now. She turned the page and her head at
the same time, pointing to the sum which would have been bad enough
without the fifty, but which was appalling to her with that added. For a
minute the room was very still; then John said slowly,--but she could
feel it cost him an effort to express no displeasure,--

"Well, I don't know that fifty is much for a dress, with all the
furbelows and notions you have to have to finish it off these days."

"It isn't made or trimmed," sighed Meg faintly, for a sudden
recollection of the cost still to be incurred quite overwhelmed her.

"Twenty-five yards of silk seems a good deal to cover one small woman,
but I've no doubt my wife will look as fine as Ned Moffat's when she
gets it on," said John dryly.

"I know you are angry, John, but I can't help it. I don't mean to waste
your money, and I didn't think those little things would count up so. I
can't resist them when I see Sallie buying all she wants, and pitying me
because I don't. I try to be contented, but it is hard, and I'm tired of
being poor."

The last words were spoken so low she thought he did not hear them, but
he did, and they wounded him deeply, for he had denied himself many
pleasures for Meg's sake. She could have bitten her tongue out the
minute she had said it, for John pushed the books away, and got up,
saying, with a little quiver in his voice, "I was afraid of this; I do
my best, Meg." If he had scolded her, or even shaken her, it would not
have broken her heart like those few words. She ran to him and held him
close, crying, with repentant tears, "O John, my dear, kind,
hard-working boy, I didn't mean it! It was so wicked, so untrue and
ungrateful, how could I say it! Oh, how could I say it!"

He was very kind, forgave her readily, and did not utter one reproach;
but Meg knew that she had done and said a thing which would not be
forgotten soon, although he might never allude to it again. She had
promised to love him for better for worse; and then she, his wife, had
reproached him with his poverty, after spending his earnings recklessly.
It was dreadful; and the worst of it was John went on so quietly
afterward, just as if nothing had happened, except that he stayed in
town later, and worked at night when she had gone to cry herself to
sleep. A week of remorse nearly made Meg sick; and the discovery that
John had countermanded the order for his new great-coat reduced her to a
state of despair which was pathetic to behold. He had simply said, in
answer to her surprised inquiries as to the change, "I can't afford it,
my dear."

Meg said no more, but a few minutes after he found her in the hall, with
her face buried in the old great-coat, crying as if her heart would
break.

They had a long talk that night, and Meg learned to love her husband
better for his poverty, because it seemed to have made a man of him,
given him the strength and courage to fight his own way, and taught him
a tender patience with which to bear and comfort the natural longings
and failures of those he loved.

Next day she put her pride in her pocket, went to Sallie, told the
truth, and asked her to buy the silk as a favor. The good-natured Mrs.
Moffat willingly did so, and had the delicacy not to make her a present
of it immediately afterward. Then Meg ordered home the great-coat, and,
when John arrived, she put it on, and asked him how he liked her new
silk gown. One can imagine what answer he made, how he received his
present, and what a blissful state of things ensued. John came home
early, Meg gadded no more; and that great-coat was put on in the morning
by a very happy husband, and taken off at night by a most devoted little
wife. So the year rolled round, and at midsummer there came to Meg a new
experience,--the deepest and tenderest of a woman's life.

Laurie came sneaking into the kitchen of the Dove-cote, one Saturday,
with an excited face, and was received with the clash of cymbals; for
Hannah clapped her hands with a saucepan in one and the cover in the
other.

"How's the little mamma? Where is everybody? Why didn't you tell me
before I came home?" began Laurie, in a loud whisper.

"Happy as a queen, the dear! Every soul of 'em is upstairs a worshipin';
we didn't want no hurrycanes round. Now you go into the parlor, and I'll
send 'em down to you," with which somewhat involved reply Hannah
vanished, chuckling ecstatically.

Presently Jo appeared, proudly bearing a flannel bundle laid forth upon
a large pillow. Jo's face was very sober, but her eyes twinkled, and
there was an odd sound in her voice of repressed emotion of some sort.

"Shut your eyes and hold out your arms," she said invitingly.

Laurie backed precipitately into a corner, and put his hands behind him
with an imploring gesture: "No, thank you, I'd rather not. I shall drop
it or smash it, as sure as fate."

"Then you sha'n't see your nevvy," said Jo decidedly, turning as if to
go.

"I will, I will! only you must be responsible for damages;" and, obeying
orders, Laurie heroically shut his eyes while something was put into his
arms. A peal of laughter from Jo, Amy, Mrs. March, Hannah, and John
caused him to open them the next minute, to find himself invested with
two babies instead of one.

[Illustration: Laurie heroically shut his eyes while something was put
                             into his arms]

No wonder they laughed, for the expression of his face was droll enough
to convulse a Quaker, as he stood and stared wildly from the unconscious
innocents to the hilarious spectators, with such dismay that Jo sat down
on the floor and screamed.

"Twins, by Jupiter!" was all he said for a minute; then, turning to the
women with an appealing look that was comically piteous, he added, "Take
'em quick, somebody! I'm going to laugh, and I shall drop 'em."

John rescued his babies, and marched up and down, with one on each arm,
as if already initiated into the mysteries of baby-tending, while Laurie
laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks.

"It's the best joke of the season, isn't it? I wouldn't have you told,
for I set my heart on surprising you, and I flatter myself I've done
it," said Jo, when she got her breath.

"I never was more staggered in my life. Isn't it fun? Are they boys?
What are you going to name them? Let's have another look. Hold me up,
Jo; for upon my life it's one too many for me," returned Laurie,
regarding the infants with the air of a big, benevolent Newfoundland
looking at a pair of infantile kittens.

"Boy and girl. Aren't they beauties?" said the proud papa, beaming upon
the little, red squirmers as if they were unfledged angels.

"Most remarkable children I ever saw. Which is which?" and Laurie bent
like a well-sweep to examine the prodigies.

"Amy put a blue ribbon on the boy and a pink on the girl, French
fashion, so you can always tell. Besides, one has blue eyes and one
brown. Kiss them, Uncle Teddy," said wicked Jo.

"I'm afraid they mightn't like it," began Laurie, with unusual timidity
in such matters.

"Of course they will; they are used to it now. Do it this minute, sir!"
commanded Jo, fearing he might propose a proxy.

Laurie screwed up his face, and obeyed with a gingerly peck at each
little cheek that produced another laugh, and made the babies squeal.

"There, I knew they didn't like it! That's the boy; see him kick; he
hits out with his fists like a good one. Now then, young Brooke, pitch
into a man of your own size, will you?" cried Laurie, delighted with a
poke in the face from a tiny fist, flapping aimlessly about.

"He's to be named John Laurence, and the girl Margaret, after mother and
grandmother. We shall call her Daisy, so as not to have two Megs, and I
suppose the mannie will be Jack, unless we find a better name," said
Amy, with aunt-like interest.

"Name him Demijohn, and call him 'Demi' for short," said Laurie.

"Daisy and Demi,--just the thing! I _knew_ Teddy would do it," cried Jo,
clapping her hands.

Teddy certainly had done it that time, for the babies were "Daisy" and
"Demi" to the end of the chapter.

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

completion: Domestic Experiences Meg and John have a wonderful but trying time adjusting to married life. Their first big fight comes about after Meg tries to make currant jelly. After a day of boiling, sugaring, and straining their entire crop of currants, Meg is unable to make the jelly, and ends the day crying with exhaustion. Unfortunately, on this day John brought home a colleague for dinner, as Meg had often encouraged him to do. Finding the house in disarray, dinner uncooked, and Meg tired and cranky, John has to play host with an impromptu dinner. Both Meg and John feel betrayed and hurt, and neither wants to apologize first, until Meg gives in. John also apologizes and their first real disagreement is smoothed over. Meg also struggles with envying the luxurious items Sallie Moffat has. On her shopping ships with Sallie, she begins to buy a trifle here, and a trifle there, and then spends fifty dollars on silk for a new dress. Meg feels deeply guilty, even more so tells John. He is angry, and Meg tries to justify herself, saying she is tired of being poor. Meg immediately regrets her comment, and though John quickly forgives her, she feels awful. John works later hours and cancels an order of a coat for himself to cover his expenses. Meg and John have a long, open conversation about their poverty and the strength of character it gives them. The next day Meg swallows her pride and asks Sallie to buy the silk from her, then uses the money to buy John's coat, and never again wastes his money. Several months later, Meg gives birth to twins, Daisy and Demi, which are nicknames for Margaret and John


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: Calls Amy and Jo prepare to make formal calls to families around town, to Jo's great consternation. Amy dresses Jo and instructs her in how to carry herself and behave at each house so she will be liked, but Jo, annoyed by the exercise of trying to win others' approval, acts inappropriately at every home. Jo imitates one of Amy's friends May Chester, and then she is rude to a titled gentleman. At their final call on Aunt March, they also find her engrossed in conversation with Aunt Carrol. They discuss a fair that the Chesters are having to support the freedmen, at which Amy has been offered a chance to volunteer, and of which Jo disapproves. Aunt Carrol and Aunt March appreciate Amy's gratitude toward the Chesters, and Jo pronounces that she does not like favors. Aunt March and Aunt Carrol look at each other knowingly then ask the girls if they speak French. Amy does, a little, but Jo refuses to learn. Jo proposes they leave promptly, and the two Aunts seem quite decided about something


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: Consequences After spending long hours preparing to work the art table at the Chesters' fair, making her own pieces and soliciting ones from others, Amy is asked by Mrs. Chester to move to the flower table. May Chester is jealous of Amy, whose art was prettier, who was danced with more often. May also heard rumors that Amy mocked her recently, though in fact this was Jo. Amy understands the slight, but accepts politely, removes her artwork from the table, and spends the entire evening setting up the previously neglected flowers. At home, Amy explains that she does not wish to be mean simply because the Chesters were, and her mother agrees that kindness is often our best weapon against our enemies. The next morning, while reading a book of sayings she illustrated, she is reminded to "love thy neighbor" and inspired to return her artwork to the art table where May now works. Amy is proud of being generous in the face of meanness, despite the long day spent alone at the flower table, looking wistfully at the busy and popular art table. At home, Jo conspires to get her revenge. She asks Laurie to send over some fresh, new flowers, and to have his troupe of friends shower Amy's table with attention. Laurie agrees wholeheartedly, though giving Jo such plaintive and suggestive looks that she shuts the door in his face. The troupe indeed makes Amy's table a great success. Jo learns that May has seen her error and made sure all of Amy's works sold, so Amy sends the troupe to May's table to do their duty. Jo admires Amy's generous spirit and gives her great respect, and Amy explains that, for her, being a lady means being truly well mannered, in behavior as well as speech. Jo trusts that Amy will be rewarded in time for her efforts. Amy gets her reward just one week later, in the form of an invitation to accompany Aunt Carrol to Europe. Jo is shocked and hurt that Amy has been invited rather than Jo, feeling that Amy is too young. However, Aunt Carrol writes of Jo's disinclination toward favors and French that Jo had thoughtlessly shared during their call. Marmee urges Jo not to spoil Amy's happiness, and Beth is grateful that Jo will stay at home near her. Jo tries, and is helpful and happy getting Amy ready to go, at which point she sobs with regret and frustration. Amy is also cheerful until she leaves her family, and begs Laurie to watch over them. He promises to do so, and to come comfort her if anything should happen, not realizing he would truly need to