prompt:
Chapter: XXXVIII. ON THE SHELF.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Don't you neglect him?"

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

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

"I don't see how."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oughtn't I to be there?"

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

"You really think so, mother?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Only you, dear."

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

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

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

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

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

"Opy doy; me's tummin!"

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

                      [Illustration: Mornin' now]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"More sudar, marmar."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Please let me kiss him once, John?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                       [Illustration: Tail-piece]

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

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

completion: On the Shelf With Daisy and Demi, Meg and John's twins, come new challenges for the couple. Meg is completely absorbed in her babies for the first year of their lives, to the detriment of her happiness, John's, and their relationship. Meg ceases to give John her attention and time, and John responds by spending more time out of the house with friends. Once Daisy and Demi start to calm down and need less of her constant care, Meg finds herself alone at home in the evenings and misses John's company. She does not want to ask him to stay home, and so they continue, missing one another, until Marmee learns of the situation. Marmee shows Meg that in her duty to her children, she has forgotten her duty to her husband. She encourages Meg to include John in raising the children, especially Demi, drawing on her own experience with Mr. March. She encourages Meg to do more housework while Hannah attends to the babies and to take interest in the world's affairs, since they affect her as well as any man. Meg agrees, and surprises John with a nice supper and an attentive wife. Demi tries to join the supper, and learns that John is much stricter on discipline than Meg. This is initially hard for Meg, but she learns to trust that John will be kind as well as firm. They each try to take interest in the other's concerns of politics and sewing, and agree to go out more and make home more enjoyable for all, to great success


prompt:
Chapter: XXXIX. LAZY LAURENCE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Very soon."

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

"I dare say; short answers save trouble."

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

"Hospitable creature! I know it."

"Then why don't you do it?"

"Natural depravity, I suppose."

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

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

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

"What are you doing just now?"

"Watching lizards."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Wish I was!"

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

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

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

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

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

         [Illustration: Laurie threw himself down on the turf]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I don't promise to answer."

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

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

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

"No."

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

"Very likely."

"Then you are fond of old Fred?"

"I could be, if I tried."

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

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

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

"True, nevertheless."

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

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

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

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

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

"You'd be angry in five minutes."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Pining to be told."

"Well, I despise you."

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

"Why, if you please?"

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

"Strong language, mademoiselle."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"So do I!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That's impossible."

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

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

"How do you like that?"

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

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

"Yes, that's me."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    "MY DEAR MENTOR,--

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

                            "Yours gratefully,          TELEMACHUS."

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

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

                [Illustration: The Valley of the Shadow]

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

completion: Lazy Laurence Laurie stays a month in Nice, rather than a week as he planned, as both he and Amy enjoy each other's companionship. One day they go to Valrosa and Amy sketches him and decides to find out what has changed. She and worries that he has gotten into trouble gambling or loving a married woman, but Laurie assures her that he has stayed out of mischief. He asks when she will become a great artist, but Amy divulges that Rome humbled her, made her see that her talent was not genius, and so she intends to be an ornament to society. Laurie admires her new goal, and suggests that Fred Vaughn might give her an opportunity. Amy is reserved in her reply, but admits that she will marry Fred if he asks, despite not feeling strong affection for her. Laurie is surprised and disappointed, saying that Fred is not the type he would have thought Amy to like. Amy then lectures Laurie on his indolence of late, and urges him to go to his grandfather as he says he will, and be useful. Amy tells him she despises him for his lazy selfishness, which squanders his opportunities of money, health, and good position. Amy wishes Jo were there to help her, and seeing Laurie's reaction, realizes what they never told her at home, that Jo refused him. Laurie confirms her realization, and Amy apologizes for being unkind, though encourages him to accept defeat more resolutely, and do something to make Jo love him, or be respected, if he cannot be loved. By graduating well, Laurie showed that he could accomplish great tasks if he tries, but he just needs another motivation now. Amy concludes her lecture by showing him her sketch of him and comparing it to an earlier, rougher sketch of him years ago taming a horse--active, energetic, and full of life. The next day Amy receives a note that Laurie has gone to his grandfather, like a good boy


prompt:
Chapter: XL. THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW.

When the first bitterness was over, the family accepted the inevitable,
and tried to bear it cheerfully, helping one another by the increased
affection which comes to bind households tenderly together in times of
trouble. They put away their grief, and each did his or her part toward
making that last year a happy one.

The pleasantest room in the house was set apart for Beth, and in it was
gathered everything that she most loved,--flowers, pictures, her piano,
the little work-table, and the beloved pussies. Father's best books
found their way there, mother's easy-chair, Jo's desk, Amy's finest
sketches; and every day Meg brought her babies on a loving pilgrimage,
to make sunshine for Aunty Beth. John quietly set apart a little sum,
that he might enjoy the pleasure of keeping the invalid supplied with
the fruit she loved and longed for; old Hannah never wearied of
concocting dainty dishes to tempt a capricious appetite, dropping tears
as she worked; and from across the sea came little gifts and cheerful
letters, seeming to bring breaths of warmth and fragrance from lands
that know no winter.

Here, cherished like a household saint in its shrine, sat Beth, tranquil
and busy as ever; for nothing could change the sweet, unselfish nature,
and even while preparing to leave life, she tried to make it happier for
those who should remain behind. The feeble fingers were never idle, and
one of her pleasures was to make little things for the school-children
daily passing to and fro,--to drop a pair of mittens from her window for
a pair of purple hands, a needle-book for some small mother of many
dolls, pen-wipers for young penmen toiling through forests of pot-hooks,
scrap-books for picture-loving eyes, and all manner of pleasant devices,
till the reluctant climbers up the ladder of learning found their way
strewn with flowers, as it were, and came to regard the gentle giver as
a sort of fairy godmother, who sat above there, and showered down gifts
miraculously suited to their tastes and needs. If Beth had wanted any
reward, she found it in the bright little faces always turned up to her
window, with nods and smiles, and the droll little letters which came to
her, full of blots and gratitude.

The first few months were very happy ones, and Beth often used to look
round, and say "How beautiful this is!" as they all sat together in her
sunny room, the babies kicking and crowing on the floor, mother and
sisters working near, and father reading, in his pleasant voice, from
the wise old books which seemed rich in good and comfortable words, as
applicable now as when written centuries ago; a little chapel, where a
paternal priest taught his flock the hard lessons all must learn, trying
to show them that hope can comfort love, and faith make resignation
possible. Simple sermons, that went straight to the souls of those who
listened; for the father's heart was in the minister's religion, and the
frequent falter in the voice gave a double eloquence to the words he
spoke or read.

It was well for all that this peaceful time was given them as
preparation for the sad hours to come; for, by and by, Beth said the
needle was "so heavy," and put it down forever; talking wearied her,
faces troubled her, pain claimed her for its own, and her tranquil
spirit was sorrowfully perturbed by the ills that vexed her feeble
flesh. Ah me! such heavy days, such long, long nights, such aching
hearts and imploring prayers, when those who loved her best were forced
to see the thin hands stretched out to them beseechingly, to hear the
bitter cry, "Help me, help me!" and to feel that there was no help. A
sad eclipse of the serene soul, a sharp struggle of the young life with
death; but both were mercifully brief, and then, the natural rebellion
over, the old peace returned more beautiful than ever. With the wreck of
her frail body, Beth's soul grew strong; and, though she said little,
those about her felt that she was ready, saw that the first pilgrim
called was likewise the fittest, and waited with her on the shore,
trying to see the Shining Ones coming to receive her when she crossed
the river.

Jo never left her for an hour since Beth had said, "I feel stronger when
you are here." She slept on a couch in the room, waking often to renew
the fire, to feed, lift, or wait upon the patient creature who seldom
asked for anything, and "tried not to be a trouble." All day she haunted
the room, jealous of any other nurse, and prouder of being chosen then
than of any honor her life ever brought her. Precious and helpful hours
to Jo, for now her heart received the teaching that it needed; lessons
in patience were so sweetly taught her that she could not fail to learn
them; charity for all, the lovely spirit that can forgive and truly
forget unkindness, the loyalty to duty that makes the hardest easy, and
the sincere faith that fears nothing, but trusts undoubtingly.

Often, when she woke, Jo found Beth reading in her well-worn little
book, heard her singing softly, to beguile the sleepless night, or saw
her lean her face upon her hands, while slow tears dropped through the
transparent fingers; and Jo would lie watching her, with thoughts too
deep for tears, feeling that Beth, in her simple, unselfish way, was
trying to wean herself from the dear old life, and fit herself for the
life to come, by sacred words of comfort, quiet prayers, and the music
she loved so well.

Seeing this did more for Jo than the wisest sermons, the saintliest
hymns, the most fervent prayers that any voice could utter; for, with
eyes made clear by many tears, and a heart softened by the tenderest
sorrow, she recognized the beauty of her sister's life,--uneventful,
unambitious, yet full of the genuine virtues which "smell sweet, and
blossom in the dust," the self-forgetfulness that makes the humblest on
earth remembered soonest in heaven, the true success which is possible
to all.

One night, when Beth looked among the books upon her table, to find
something to make her forget the mortal weariness that was almost as
hard to bear as pain, as she turned the leaves of her old favorite
Pilgrim's Progress, she found a little paper, scribbled over in Jo's
hand. The name caught her eye, and the blurred look of the lines made
her sure that tears had fallen on it.

"Poor Jo! she's fast asleep, so I won't wake her to ask leave; she shows
me all her things, and I don't think she'll mind if I look at this,"
thought Beth, with a glance at her sister, who lay on the rug, with the
tongs beside her, ready to wake up the minute the log fell apart.

                               "MY BETH.

        "Sitting patient in the shadow
           Till the blessed light shall come,
         A serene and saintly presence
           Sanctifies our troubled home.
         Earthly joys and hopes and sorrows
           Break like ripples on the strand
         Of the deep and solemn river
           Where her willing feet now stand.

        "O my sister, passing from me,
           Out of human care and strife,
         Leave me, as a gift, those virtues
           Which have beautified your life.
         Dear, bequeath me that great patience
           Which has power to sustain
         A cheerful, uncomplaining spirit
           In its prison-house of pain.

        "Give me, for I need it sorely,
           Of that courage, wise and sweet,
         Which has made the path of duty
           Green beneath your willing feet.
         Give me that unselfish nature,
           That with charity divine
         Can pardon wrong for love's dear sake--
           Meek heart, forgive me mine!

        "Thus our parting daily loseth
          Something of its bitter pain,
         And while learning this hard lesson,
           My great loss becomes my gain.
         For the touch of grief will render
           My wild nature more serene,
         Give to life new aspirations,
           A new trust in the unseen.

        "Henceforth, safe across the river,
           I shall see forevermore
         A beloved, household spirit
           Waiting for me on the shore.
         Hope and faith, born of my sorrow,
           Guardian angels shall become,
         And the sister gone before me
           By their hands shall lead me home."

Blurred and blotted, faulty and feeble, as the lines were, they brought
a look of inexpressible comfort to Beth's face, for her one regret had
been that she had done so little; and this seemed to assure her that her
life had not been useless, that her death would not bring the despair
she feared. As she sat with the paper folded between her hands, the
charred log fell asunder. Jo started up, revived the blaze, and crept to
the bedside, hoping Beth slept.

"Not asleep, but so happy, dear. See, I found this and read it; I knew
you wouldn't care. Have I been all that to you, Jo?" she asked, with
wistful, humble earnestness.

"O Beth, so much, so much!" and Jo's head went down upon the pillow,
beside her sister's.

"Then I don't feel as if I'd wasted my life. I'm not so good as you make
me, but I _have_ tried to do right; and now, when it's too late to
begin even to do better, it's such a comfort to know that some one loves
me so much, and feels as if I'd helped them."

"More than any one in the world, Beth. I used to think I couldn't let
you go; but I'm learning to feel that I don't lose you; that you'll be
more to me than ever, and death can't part us, though it seems to."

"I know it cannot, and I don't fear it any longer, for I'm sure I shall
be your Beth still, to love and help you more than ever. You must take
my place, Jo, and be everything to father and mother when I'm gone. They
will turn to you, don't fail them; and if it's hard to work alone,
remember that I don't forget you, and that you'll be happier in doing
that than writing splendid books or seeing all the world; for love is
the only thing that we can carry with us when we go, and it makes the
end so easy."

"I'll try, Beth;" and then and there Jo renounced her old ambition,
pledged herself to a new and better one, acknowledging the poverty of
other desires, and feeling the blessed solace of a belief in the
immortality of love.

So the spring days came and went, the sky grew clearer, the earth
greener, the flowers were up fair and early, and the birds came back in
time to say good-by to Beth, who, like a tired but trustful child, clung
to the hands that had led her all her life, as father and mother guided
her tenderly through the Valley of the Shadow, and gave her up to God.

Seldom, except in books, do the dying utter memorable words, see
visions, or depart with beatified countenances; and those who have sped
many parting souls know that to most the end comes as naturally and
simply as sleep. As Beth had hoped, the "tide went out easily;" and in
the dark hour before the dawn, on the bosom where she had drawn her
first breath, she quietly drew her last, with no farewell but one loving
look, one little sigh.

With tears and prayers and tender hands, mother and sisters made her
ready for the long sleep that pain would never mar again, seeing with
grateful eyes the beautiful serenity that soon replaced the pathetic
patience that had wrung their hearts so long, and feeling, with reverent
joy, that to their darling death was a benignant angel, not a phantom
full of dread.

When morning came, for the first time in many months the fire was out,
Jo's place was empty, and the room was very still. But a bird sang
blithely on a budding bough, close by, the snow-drops blossomed freshly
at the window, and the spring sunshine streamed in like a benediction
over the placid face upon the pillow,--a face so full of painless peace
that those who loved it best smiled through their tears, and thanked God
that Beth was well at last.

                       [Illustration: Tail-piece]

                [Illustration: Sat staring up at the busts]

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

completion: The Valley of the Shadow At home, everyone does her best to make Beth's remaining time happy. A room is set up for her with her piano and worktable and everyone's nicest trinkets and pleasures. Beth, never idle, sits and makes gifts to drop out the window to the schoolchildren passing below. This sunny time together, with the family spending time reading and working in one room, prepares them for the hard time to come, when Beth feels pain and exhaustion. Jo sleeps on a couch in the room to be always near, feeling that nursing sweet Beth is the highest honor of her life to date. This time teaches Jo patience, duty, tenderness, and faith, and she recognizes the beauty of her sister's simple and humble life. She composes a poem of admiration to Beth's life and gratitude for all Beth taught her, which Beth finds to her great comfort, as her one regret was the fear that she had wasted her life and been useless. Jo says Beth will continue to be with her, in all that she has learned, and Beth asks Jo to take her place at home and be strong for Mother and Father. Jo agrees, taking up this new goal and giving up her dreams of being a great writer or traveling abroad. Beth dies quietly and peacefully that spring, and those who loved her most are thankful that she is finally at rest