prompt:
Chapter: "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 today?"

"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
smelled 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 today, 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 lamblike
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're 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
golden 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 snowbank, and as
silent as the 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 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
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 practice 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 stableman 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
horsebreaker, 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 farm house 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!"

"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
cardcase 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 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 failure 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, bearlike 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 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.

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 Jo, "I neither like, respect, nor admire
Tudor, though his grandfather's uncle's nephew's niece was a 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 cardcase 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 today.  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 March 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 practice 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 Teddie 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 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 aunts 'my deared' her affectionately,
looking what they afterward 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.

If Jo had only known what a great happiness was wavering in the balance
for one of them, she would have turned dove-like 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 a 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.

    Crosspatch, 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 a lump of 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."

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

completion: Amy has conned Jo into going calling with her and made her put on her nicest clothes. Jo was less than enthusiastic but agreed to be on her best behavior. They first went to the Chester's and Jo acted the lady, but would not answer any questions except with yes and no. The Chester's thought she was dry and unresponsive and she told Amy she would do better at the next house. They went to the Lamb house, and while Amy was listening to Mrs. Lamb, Jo was entertaining the other guests with embarrassing stories of Amy and her riding talent. Amy gave up on Jo, and at the next house, they visited Jo sat outside with some young gentleman and some children. Again, Amy was disappointed with her behavior. The next two houses they went to, no one was available, so they decided lastly to visit their Aunt March. Their Aunt Carrol was there as well, and the two older women seemed to be choosing between the two girls for something. Finally, the older women decided that Amy should take a trip to Europe with Aunt Carrol, and Aunt March would pay for it. Neither of the girls knew Jo was in a bad mood for having to go calling, so the girls went home


prompt:
Chapter: 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 everyone 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 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 anyone 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 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,  Mama,"
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.
Everyone 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
draft, 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 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
practicing.

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 the anteroom 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 scrollwork 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 heartburnings 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 spoiled."

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

"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 skillful 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 for 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 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.

"Oh, 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 centerpiece.  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 spritely and gracious as possible, coming to the
conclusion, about that time, that virtue was its own reward, after all.

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 sign of them.
"Tucked away out of sight, I dare say," thought Jo, who could forgive
her own wrongs, but hotly resented any insult offered 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 had,
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 word 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 goodnight, 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."

"Oh, 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's 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.

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

completion: The Chester's had asked Amy to run a table at the fair they were throwing and Amy was extremely happy about it. While she was setting up the day before the fair however, Mrs. Chester approached her. She said that the table Amy was running should really go to her daughter. Amy was disappointed, and knew that May, Mrs. Chester's daughter was mad at her for something. She gave the table up gracefully, and succumbed to running the table that sold flowers that no one visited. Hearing of her sister's misfortune, Jo enlisted Laurie and his friends to come and keep her company the following day. The next day they all came and had a wonderful time, and at the end of the day, May Chester was ready to forgive and forget Amy for the grievance she had felt. This made Amy happy. The next week, Mrs. March received a letter from her Aunt Carrol asking Amy to accompany her to Europe. Jo was disappointed that she was not picked, but tried to be happy for her sister. Amy was ecstatic and planned to use the trip to start her off as an artist


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

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

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

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

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

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

Wasn't that nonsensical?

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

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

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

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

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

"Now, then, mum?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

AMY

PARIS

Dear girls,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Adieu, I embrace you tenderly. _"Votre Amie."_

HEIDELBERG

My dear Mamma,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ever your AMY

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

completion: Amy writes letters back to her family and in them, she describes the adventures she is having in Europe. While in England she runs into Frank and Fred Vaughn who were Laurie's friends. She spends a lot of time with them, and they show her London. When Amy and her relatives leave to go to Paris, Fred joins them. He travels with them from Paris to Germany, and Amy writes home to say she thinks he will ask her to marry him. If he does, she plans on accepting. He then had to depart for home because he received a letter saying his brother Frank was very ill. Before he left, he asked Amy not to forget him


prompt:
Chapter: "Jo, I'm anxious about Beth."

"Why, Mother, she has seemed unusually well since the babies came."

"It's not her health that troubles me now, it's her spirits. I'm sure
there is something on her mind, and I want you to discover what it is."

"What makes you think so, Mother?"

"She sits alone a good deal, and doesn't talk to her father as much as
she used.  I found her crying over the babies the other day.  When she
sings, the songs are always sad ones, and now and then I see a look in
her face that I don't understand. This isn't like Beth, and it worries
me."

"Have you asked her about it?"

"I have tried once or twice, but she either evaded my questions or
looked so distressed that I stopped.  I never force my children's
confidence, and I seldom have to wait for long."

Mrs. March glanced at Jo as she spoke, but the face opposite seemed
quite unconscious of any secret disquietude but Beth's, and after
sewing thoughtfully for a minute, Jo said, "I think she is growing up,
and so begins to dream dreams, and have hopes and fears and fidgets,
without knowing why or being able to explain them.  Why, Mother, Beth's
eighteen, but we don't realize it, and treat her like a child,
forgetting she's a woman."

"So she is.  Dear heart, how fast you do grow up," returned her mother
with a sigh and a smile.

"Can't be helped, Marmee, so you must resign yourself to all sorts of
worries, and let your birds hop out of the nest, one by one.  I promise
never to hop very far, if that is any comfort to you."

"It's a great comfort, Jo.  I always feel strong when you are at home,
now Meg is gone.  Beth is too feeble and Amy too young to depend upon,
but when the tug comes, you are always ready."

"Why, you know I don't mind hard jobs much, and there must always be
one scrub in a family.  Amy is splendid in fine works and I'm not, but
I feel in my element when all the carpets are to be taken up, or half
the family fall sick at once. Amy is distinguishing herself abroad, but
if anything is amiss at home, I'm your man."

"I leave Beth to your hands, then, for she will open her tender little
heart to her Jo sooner than to anyone else.  Be very kind, and don't
let her think anyone watches or talks about her.  If she only would get
quite strong and cheerful again, I shouldn't have a wish in the world."

"Happy woman!  I've got heaps."

"My dear, what are they?"

"I'll settle Bethy's troubles, and then I'll tell you mine. They are
not very wearing, so they'll keep." and Jo stitched away, with a wise
nod which set her mother's heart at rest about her for the present at
least.

While apparently absorbed in her own affairs, Jo watched Beth, and
after many conflicting conjectures, finally settled upon one which
seemed to explain the change in her.  A slight incident gave Jo the
clue to the mystery, she thought, and lively fancy, loving heart did
the rest.  She was affecting to write busily one Saturday afternoon,
when she and Beth were alone together.  Yet as she scribbled, she kept
her eye on her sister, who seemed unusually quiet.  Sitting at the
window, Beth's work often dropped into her lap, and she leaned her head
upon her hand, in a dejected attitude, while her eyes rested on the
dull, autumnal landscape.  Suddenly some one passed below, whistling
like an operatic blackbird, and a voice called out, "All serene! Coming
in tonight."

Beth started, leaned forward, smiled and nodded, watched the passer-by
till his quick tramp died away, then said softly as if to herself, "How
strong and well and happy that dear boy looks."

"Hum!" said Jo, still intent upon her sister's face, for the bright
color faded as quickly as it came, the smile vanished, and presently a
tear lay shining on the window ledge.  Beth whisked it off, and in her
half-averted face read a tender sorrow that made her own eyes fill.
Fearing to betray herself, she slipped away, murmuring something about
needing more paper.

"Mercy on me, Beth loves Laurie!" she said, sitting down in her own
room, pale with the shock of the discovery which she believed she had
just made.  "I never dreamed of such a thing. What will Mother say?  I
wonder if her..."  there Jo stopped and turned scarlet with a sudden
thought.  "If he shouldn't love back again, how dreadful it would be.
He must.  I'll make him!" and she shook her head threateningly at the
picture of the mischievous-looking boy laughing at her from the wall.
"Oh dear, we are growing up with a vengeance.  Here's Meg married and a
mamma, Amy flourishing away at Paris, and Beth in love.  I'm the only
one that has sense enough to keep out of mischief." Jo thought intently
for a minute with her eyes fixed on the picture, then she smoothed out
her wrinkled forehead and said, with a decided nod at the face
opposite, "No thank you, sir, you're very charming, but you've no more
stability than a weathercock.  So you needn't write touching notes and
smile in that insinuating way, for it won't do a bit of good, and I
won't have it."

Then she sighed, and fell into a reverie from which she did not wake
till the early twilight sent her down to take new observations, which
only confirmed her suspicion.  Though Laurie flirted with Amy and joked
with Jo, his manner to Beth had always been peculiarly kind and gentle,
but so was everybody's. Therefore, no one thought of imagining that he
cared more for her than for the others.  Indeed, a general impression
had prevailed in the family of late that 'our boy' was getting fonder
than ever of Jo, who, however, wouldn't hear a word upon the subject
and scolded violently if anyone dared to suggest it. If they had known
the various tender passages which had been nipped in the bud, they
would have had the immense satisfaction of saying, "I told you so."
But Jo hated 'philandering', and wouldn't allow it, always having a
joke or a smile ready at the least sign of impending danger.

When Laurie first went to college, he fell in love about once a month,
but these small flames were as brief as ardent, did no damage, and much
amused Jo, who took great interest in the alternations of hope,
despair, and resignation, which were confided to her in their weekly
conferences.  But there came a time when Laurie ceased to worship at
many shrines, hinted darkly at one all-absorbing passion, and indulged
occasionally in Byronic fits of gloom.  Then he avoided the tender
subject altogether, wrote philosophical notes to Jo, turned studious,
and gave out that he was going to 'dig', intending to graduate in a
blaze of glory.  This suited the young lady better than twilight
confidences, tender pressures of the hand, and eloquent glances of the
eye, for with Jo, brain developed earlier than heart, and she preferred
imaginary heroes to real ones, because when tired of them, the former
could be shut up in the tin kitchen till called for, and the latter
were less manageable.

Things were in this state when the grand discovery was made, and Jo
watched Laurie that night as she had never done before.  If she had not
got the new idea into her head, she would have seen nothing unusual in
the fact that Beth was very quiet, and Laurie very kind to her.  But
having given the rein to her lively fancy, it galloped away with her at
a great pace, and common sense, being rather weakened by a long course
of romance writing, did not come to the rescue.  As usual Beth lay on
the sofa and Laurie sat in a low chair close by, amusing her with all
sorts of gossip, for she depended on her weekly 'spin', and he never
disappointed her.  But that evening Jo fancied that Beth's eyes rested
on the lively, dark face beside her with peculiar pleasure, and that
she listened with intense interest to an account of some exciting
cricket match, though the phrases, 'caught off a tice', 'stumped off
his ground', and 'the leg hit for three', were as intelligible to her
as Sanskrit.  She also fancied, having set her heart upon seeing it,
that she saw a certain increase of gentleness in Laurie's manner, that
he dropped his voice now and then, laughed less than usual, was a
little absent-minded, and settled the afghan over Beth's feet with an
assiduity that was really almost tender.

"Who knows?  Stranger things have happened," thought Jo, as she fussed
about the room.  "She will make quite an angel of him, and he will make
life delightfully easy and pleasant for the dear, if they only love
each other.  I don't see how he can help it, and I do believe he would
if the rest of us were out of the way."

As everyone was out of the way but herself, Jo began to feel that she
ought to dispose of herself with all speed.  But where should she go?
And burning to lay herself upon the shrine of sisterly devotion, she
sat down to settle that point.

Now, the old sofa was a regular patriarch of a sofa--long, broad,
well-cushioned, and low, a trifle shabby, as well it might be, for the
girls had slept and sprawled on it as babies, fished over the back,
rode on the arms, and had menageries under it as children, and rested
tired heads, dreamed dreams, and listened to tender talk on it as young
women.  They all loved it, for it was a family refuge, and one corner
had always been Jo's favorite lounging place.  Among the many pillows
that adorned the venerable couch was one, hard, round, covered with
prickly horsehair, and furnished with a knobby button at each end.
This repulsive pillow was her especial property, being used as a weapon
of defense, a barricade, or a stern preventive of too much slumber.

Laurie knew this pillow well, and had cause to regard it with deep
aversion, having been unmercifully pummeled with it in former days when
romping was allowed, and now frequently debarred by it from the seat he
most coveted next to Jo in the sofa corner.  If 'the sausage' as they
called it, stood on end, it was a sign that he might approach and
repose, but if it lay flat across the sofa, woe to man, woman, or child
who dared disturb it!  That evening Jo forgot to barricade her corner,
and had not been in her seat five minutes, before a massive form
appeared beside her, and with both arms spread over the sofa back, both
long legs stretched out before him, Laurie exclaimed, with a sigh of
satisfaction...

"Now, this is filling at the price."

"No slang," snapped Jo, slamming down the pillow.  But it was too late,
there was no room for it, and coasting onto the floor, it disappeared
in a most mysterious manner.

"Come, Jo, don't be thorny.  After studying himself to a skeleton all
the week, a fellow deserves petting and ought to get it."

"Beth will pet you.  I'm busy."

"No, she's not to be bothered with me, but you like that sort of thing,
unless you've suddenly lost your taste for it.  Have you? Do you hate
your boy, and want to fire pillows at him?"

Anything more wheedlesome than that touching appeal was seldom heard,
but Jo quenched 'her boy' by turning on him with a stern query, "How
many bouquets have you sent Miss Randal this week?"

"Not one, upon my word.  She's engaged.  Now then."

"I'm glad of it, that's one of your foolish extravagances, sending
flowers and things to girls for whom you don't care two pins,"
continued Jo reprovingly.

"Sensible girls for whom I do care whole papers of pins won't let me
send them 'flowers and things', so what can I do? My feelings need a
'vent'."

"Mother doesn't approve of flirting even in fun, and you do flirt
desperately, Teddy."

"I'd give anything if I could answer, 'So do you'.  As I can't, I'll
merely say that I don't see any harm in that pleasant little game, if
all parties understand that it's only play."

"Well, it does look pleasant, but I can't learn how it's done. I've
tried, because one feels awkward in company not to do as everybody else
is doing, but I don't seem to get on", said Jo, forgetting to play
mentor.

"Take lessons of Amy, she has a regular talent for it."

"Yes, she does it very prettily, and never seems to go too far.  I
suppose it's natural to some people to please without trying, and
others to always say and do the wrong thing in the wrong place."

"I'm glad you can't flirt.  It's really refreshing to see a sensible,
straightforward girl, who can be jolly and kind without making a fool
of herself.  Between ourselves, Jo, some of the girls I know really do
go on at such a rate I'm ashamed of them. They don't mean any harm, I'm
sure, but if they knew how we fellows talked about them afterward,
they'd mend their ways, I fancy."

"They do the same, and as their tongues are the sharpest, you fellows
get the worst of it, for you are as silly as they, every bit.  If you
behaved properly, they would, but knowing you like their nonsense, they
keep it up, and then you blame them."

"Much you know about it, ma'am," said Laurie in a superior tone. "We
don't like romps and flirts, though we may act as if we did sometimes.
The pretty, modest girls are never talked about, except respectfully,
among gentleman. Bless your innocent soul!  If you could be in my place
for a month you'd see things that would astonish you a trifle. Upon my
word, when I see one of those harum-scarum girls, I always want to say
with our friend Cock Robin...

    "Out upon you, fie upon you,
     Bold-faced jig!"

It was impossible to help laughing at the funny conflict between
Laurie's chivalrous reluctance to speak ill of womankind, and his very
natural dislike of the unfeminine folly of which fashionable society
showed him many samples.  Jo knew that 'young Laurence' was regarded as
a most eligible parti by worldly mamas, was much smiled upon by their
daughters, and flattered enough by ladies of all ages to make a coxcomb
of him, so she watched him rather jealously, fearing he would be
spoiled, and rejoiced more than she confessed to find that he still
believed in modest girls.  Returning suddenly to her admonitory tone,
she said, dropping her voice, "If you must have a 'vent', Teddy, go and
devote yourself to one of the 'pretty, modest girls' whom you do
respect, and not waste your time with the silly ones."

"You really advise it?" and Laurie looked at her with an odd mixture of
anxiety and merriment in his face.

"Yes, I do, but you'd better wait till you are through college, on the
whole, and be fitting yourself for the place meantime.  You're not half
good enough for--well, whoever the modest girl may be." and Jo looked a
little queer likewise, for a name had almost escaped her.

"That I'm not!" acquiesced Laurie, with an expression of humility quite
new to him, as he dropped his eyes and absently wound Jo's apron tassel
round his finger.

"Mercy on us, this will never do," thought Jo, adding aloud, "Go and
sing to me.  I'm dying for some music, and always like yours."

"I'd rather stay here, thank you."

"Well, you can't, there isn't room.  Go and make yourself useful, since
you are too big to be ornamental.  I thought you hated to be tied to a
woman's apron string?" retorted Jo, quoting certain rebellious words of
his own.

"Ah, that depends on who wears the apron!" and Laurie gave an audacious
tweak at the tassel.

"Are you going?" demanded Jo, diving for the pillow.

He fled at once, and the minute it was well, "Up with the bonnets of
bonnie Dundee," she slipped away to return no more till the young
gentleman departed in high dudgeon.

Jo lay long awake that night, and was just dropping off when the sound
of a stifled sob made her fly to Beth's bedside, with the anxious
inquiry, "What is it, dear?"

"I thought you were asleep," sobbed Beth.

"Is it the old pain, my precious?"

"No, it's a new one, but I can bear it," and Beth tried to check her
tears.

"Tell me all about it, and let me cure it as I often did the other."

"You can't, there is no cure."  There Beth's voice gave way, and
clinging to her sister, she cried so despairingly that Jo was
frightened.

"Where is it?  Shall I call Mother?"

"No, no, don't call her, don't tell her.  I shall be better soon.  Lie
down here and 'poor' my head.  I'll be quiet and go to sleep, indeed I
will."

Jo obeyed, but as her hand went softly to and fro across Beth's hot
forehead and wet eyelids, her heart was very full and she longed to
speak.  But young as she was, Jo had learned that hearts, like flowers,
cannot be rudely handled, but must open naturally, so though she
believed she knew the cause of Beth's new pain, she only said, in her
tenderest tone, "Does anything trouble you, deary?"

"Yes, Jo," after a long pause.

"Wouldn't it comfort you to tell me what it is?"

"Not now, not yet."

"Then I won't ask, but remember, Bethy, that Mother and Jo are always
glad to hear and help you, if they can."

"I know it.  I'll tell you by-and-by."

"Is the pain better now?"

"Oh, yes, much better, you are so comfortable, Jo."

"Go to sleep, dear.  I'll stay with you."

So cheek to cheek they fell asleep, and on the morrow Beth seemed quite
herself again, for at eighteen neither heads nor hearts ache long, and
a loving word can medicine most ills.

But Jo had made up her mind, and after pondering over a project for
some days, she confided it to her mother.

"You asked me the other day what my wishes were.  I'll tell you one of
them, Marmee," she began, as they sat along together.  "I want to go
away somewhere this winter for a change."

"Why, Jo?" and her mother looked up quickly, as if the words suggested
a double meaning.

With her eyes on her work Jo answered soberly, "I want something new.
I feel restless and anxious to be seeing, doing, and learning more than
I am.  I brood too much over my own small affairs, and need stirring
up, so as I can be spared this winter, I'd like to hop a little way and
try my wings."

"Where will you hop?"

"To New York.  I had a bright idea yesterday, and this is it.  You know
Mrs. Kirke wrote to you for some respectable young person to teach her
children and sew.  It's rather hard to find just the thing, but I think
I should suit if I tried."

"My dear, go out to service in that great boarding house!" and Mrs.
March looked surprised, but not displeased.

"It's not exactly going out to service, for Mrs. Kirke is your
friend--the kindest soul that ever lived--and would make things
pleasant for me, I know.  Her family is separate from the rest, and no
one knows me there.  Don't care if they do. It's honest work, and I'm
not ashamed of it."

"Nor I.  But your writing?"

"All the better for the change.  I shall see and hear new things, get
new ideas, and even if I haven't much time there, I shall bring home
quantities of material for my rubbish."

"I have no doubt of it, but are these your only reasons for this sudden
fancy?"

"No, Mother."

"May I know the others?"

Jo looked up and Jo looked down, then said slowly, with sudden color in
her cheeks.  "It may be vain and wrong to say it, but--I'm
afraid--Laurie is getting too fond of me."

"Then you don't care for him in the way it is evident he begins to care
for you?" and Mrs. March looked anxious as she put the question.

"Mercy, no!  I love the dear boy, as I always have, and am immensely
proud of him, but as for anything more, it's out of the question."

"I'm glad of that, Jo."

"Why, please?"

"Because, dear, I don't think you suited to one another.  As friends
you are very happy, and your frequent quarrels soon blow over, but I
fear you would both rebel if you were mated for life. You are too much
alike and too fond of freedom, not to mention hot tempers and strong
wills, to get on happily together, in a relation which needs infinite
patience and forbearance, as well as love."

"That's just the feeling I had, though I couldn't express it. I'm glad
you think he is only beginning to care for me.  It would trouble me
sadly to make him unhappy, for I couldn't fall in love with the dear
old fellow merely out of gratitude, could I?"

"You are sure of his feeling for you?"

The color deepened in Jo's cheeks as she answered, with the look of
mingled pleasure, pride, and pain which young girls wear when speaking
of first lovers, "I'm afraid it is so, Mother.  He hasn't said
anything, but he looks a great deal. I think I had better go away
before it comes to anything."

"I agree with you, and if it can be managed you shall go."

Jo looked relieved, and after a pause, said, smiling, "How Mrs. Moffat
would wonder at your want of management, if she knew, and how she will
rejoice that Annie may still hope."

"Ah, Jo, mothers may differ in their management, but the hope is the
same in all--the desire to see their children happy. Meg is so, and I
am content with her success.  You I leave to enjoy your liberty till
you tire of it, for only then will you find that there is something
sweeter.  Amy is my chief care now, but her good sense will help her.
For Beth, I indulge no hopes except that she may be well.  By the way,
she seems brighter this last day or two.  Have you spoken to her?'

"Yes, she owned she had a trouble, and promised to tell me by-and-by.
I said no more, for I think I know it," and Jo told her little story.

Mrs. March shook her head, and did not take so romantic a view of the
case, but looked grave, and repeated her opinion that for Laurie's sake
Jo should go away for a time.

"Let us say nothing about it to him till the plan is settled, then I'll
run away before he can collect his wits and be tragic. Beth must think
I'm going to please myself, as I am, for I can't talk about Laurie to
her.  But she can pet and comfort him after I'm gone, and so cure him
of this romantic notion.  He's been through so many little trials of
the sort, he's used to it, and will soon get over his lovelornity."

Jo spoke hopefully, but could not rid herself of the foreboding fear
that this 'little trial' would be harder than the others, and that
Laurie would not get over his 'lovelornity' as easily as heretofore.

The plan was talked over in a family council and agreed upon, for Mrs.
Kirke gladly accepted Jo, and promised to make a pleasant home for her.
The teaching would render her independent, and such leisure as she got
might be made profitable by writing, while the new scenes and society
would be both useful and agreeable.  Jo liked the prospect and was
eager to be gone, for the home nest was growing too narrow for her
restless nature and adventurous spirit.  When all was settled, with
fear and trembling she told Laurie, but to her surprise he took it very
quietly.  He had been graver than usual of late, but very pleasant, and
when jokingly accused of turning over a new leaf, he answered soberly,
"So I am, and I mean this one shall stay turned."

Jo was very much relieved that one of his virtuous fits should come on
just then, and made her preparations with a lightened heart, for Beth
seemed more cheerful, and hoped she was doing the best for all.

"One thing I leave in your especial care," she said, the night before
she left.

"You mean your papers?" asked Beth.

"No, my boy.  Be very good to him, won't you?"

"Of course I will, but I can't fill your place, and he'll miss you
sadly."

"It won't hurt him, so remember, I leave him in your charge, to plague,
pet, and keep in order."

"I'll do my best, for your sake," promised Beth, wondering why Jo
looked at her so queerly.

When Laurie said good-by, he whispered significantly, "It won't do a
bit of good, Jo.  My eye is on you, so mind what you do, or I'll come
and bring you home."

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

completion: Mrs. March approaches Jo one day and tells her that something is wrong with Beth. Marmee does not think that she is acting her usual self and Jo endeavors to find out the problem. While studying her little sister one day, Jo realizes that Beth is in love with Laurie. She wonders if it would be possible for Laurie to love Beth back. Jo is excited by the idea, and tries to come up with a way to make the match. One day she has a private conversation with Laurie in which he hints at his feelings for her, not Beth. She then decides that it would be best if she got out of the way, so planned to move to New York for the winter to help one of her mother's friends. Marmee agrees to the plan, and as Jo leaves, Laurie tells her he knows what she is doing, and that he will not have feelings for anyone but her