prompt:
Chapter: XLIII. SURPRISES.

Jo was alone in the twilight, lying on the old sofa, looking at the
fire, and thinking. It was her favorite way of spending the hour of
dusk; no one disturbed her, and she used to lie there on Beth's little
red pillow, planning stories, dreaming dreams, or thinking tender
thoughts of the sister who never seemed far away. Her face looked tired,
grave, and rather sad; for to-morrow was her birthday, and she was
thinking how fast the years went by, how old she was getting, and how
little she seemed to have accomplished. Almost twenty-five, and nothing
to show for it. Jo was mistaken in that; there was a good deal to show,
and by and by she saw, and was grateful for it.

"An old maid, that's what I'm to be. A literary spinster, with a pen for
a spouse, a family of stories for children, and twenty years hence a
morsel of fame, perhaps; when, like poor Johnson, I'm old, and can't
enjoy it, solitary, and can't share it, independent, and don't need it.
Well, I needn't be a sour saint nor a selfish sinner; and, I dare say,
old maids are very comfortable when they get used to it; but--" and
there Jo sighed, as if the prospect was not inviting.

It seldom is, at first, and thirty seems the end of all things to
five-and-twenty; but it's not so bad as it looks, and one can get on
quite happily if one has something in one's self to fall back upon. At
twenty-five, girls begin to talk about being old maids, but secretly
resolve that they never will be; at thirty they say nothing about it,
but quietly accept the fact, and, if sensible, console themselves by
remembering that they have twenty more useful, happy years, in which
they may be learning to grow old gracefully. Don't laugh at the
spinsters, dear girls, for often very tender, tragical romances are
hidden away in the hearts that beat so quietly under the sober gowns,
and many silent sacrifices of youth, health, ambition, love itself, make
the faded faces beautiful in God's sight. Even the sad, sour sisters
should be kindly dealt with, because they have missed the sweetest part
of life, if for no other reason; and, looking at them with compassion,
not contempt, girls in their bloom should remember that they too may
miss the blossom time; that rosy cheeks don't last forever, that silver
threads will come in the bonnie brown hair, and that, by and by,
kindness and respect will be as sweet as love and admiration now.

Gentlemen, which means boys, be courteous to the old maids, no matter
how poor and plain and prim, for the only chivalry worth having is that
which is the readiest to pay deference to the old, protect the feeble,
and serve womankind, regardless of rank, age, or color. Just recollect
the good aunts who have not only lectured and fussed, but nursed and
petted, too often without thanks; the scrapes they have helped you out
of, the "tips" they have given you from their small store, the stitches
the patient old fingers have set for you, the steps the willing old feet
have taken, and gratefully pay the dear old ladies the little attentions
that women love to receive as long as they live. The bright-eyed girls
are quick to see such traits, and will like you all the better for them;
and if death, almost the only power that can part mother and son,
should rob you of yours, you will be sure to find a tender welcome and
maternal cherishing from some Aunt Priscilla, who has kept the warmest
corner of her lonely old heart for the "the best nevvy in the world."

Jo must have fallen asleep (as I dare say my reader has during this
little homily), for suddenly Laurie's ghost seemed to stand before
her,--a substantial, lifelike ghost,--leaning over her, with the very
look he used to wear when he felt a good deal and didn't like to show
it. But, like Jenny in the ballad,--

        "She could not think it he,"

and lay staring up at him in startled silence, till he stooped and
kissed her. Then she knew him, and flew up, crying joyfully,--

"O my Teddy! O my Teddy!"

"Dear Jo, you are glad to see me, then?"

"Glad! My blessed boy, words can't express my gladness. Where's Amy?"

"Your mother has got her down at Meg's. We stopped there by the way, and
there was no getting my wife out of their clutches."

"Your what?" cried Jo, for Laurie uttered those two words with an
unconscious pride and satisfaction which betrayed him.

"Oh, the dickens! now I've done it;" and he looked so guilty that Jo was
down upon him like a flash.

"You've gone and got married!"

"Yes, please, but I never will again;" and he went down upon his knees,
with a penitent clasping of hands, and a face full of mischief, mirth,
and triumph.

"Actually married?"

"Very much so, thank you."

"Mercy on us! What dreadful thing will you do next?" and Jo fell into
her seat, with a gasp.

"A characteristic, but not exactly complimentary, congratulation,"
returned Laurie, still in an abject attitude, but beaming with
satisfaction.

"What can you expect, when you take one's breath away, creeping in like
a burglar, and letting cats out of bags like that? Get up, you
ridiculous boy, and tell me all about it."

"Not a word, unless you let me come in my old place, and promise not to
barricade."

Jo laughed at that as she had not done for many a long day, and patted
the sofa invitingly, as she said, in a cordial tone,--

"The old pillow is up garret, and we don't need it now; so, come and
'fess, Teddy."

"How good it sounds to hear you say 'Teddy'! No one ever calls me that
but you;" and Laurie sat down, with an air of great content.

"What does Amy call you?"

"My lord."

"That's like her. Well, you look it;" and Jo's eyes plainly betrayed
that she found her boy comelier than ever.

The pillow was gone, but there _was_ a barricade, nevertheless,--a
natural one, raised by time, absence, and change of heart. Both felt it,
and for a minute looked at one another as if that invisible barrier cast
a little shadow over them. It was gone directly, however, for Laurie
said, with a vain attempt at dignity,--

"Don't I look like a married man and the head of a family?"

"Not a bit, and you never will. You've grown bigger and bonnier, but you
are the same scapegrace as ever."

"Now, really, Jo, you ought to treat me with more respect," began
Laurie, who enjoyed it all immensely.

"How can I, when the mere idea of you, married and settled, is so
irresistibly funny that I can't keep sober!" answered Jo, smiling all
over her face, so infectiously that they had another laugh, and then
settled down for a good talk, quite in the pleasant old fashion.

"It's no use your going out in the cold to get Amy, for they are all
coming up presently. I couldn't wait; I wanted to be the one to tell you
the grand surprise, and have 'first skim,' as we used to say when we
squabbled about the cream."

"Of course you did, and spoilt your story by beginning at the wrong end.
Now, start right, and tell me how it all happened; I'm pining to know."

"Well, I did it to please Amy," began Laurie, with a twinkle that made
Jo exclaim,--

"Fib number one; Amy did it to please you. Go on, and tell the truth, if
you can, sir."

"Now she's beginning to marm it; isn't it jolly to hear her?" said
Laurie to the fire, and the fire glowed and sparkled as if it quite
agreed. "It's all the same, you know, she and I being one. We planned to
come home with the Carrols, a month or more ago, but they suddenly
changed their minds, and decided to pass another winter in Paris. But
grandpa wanted to come home; he went to please me, and I couldn't let
him go alone, neither could I leave Amy; and Mrs. Carrol had got English
notions about chaperons and such nonsense, and wouldn't let Amy come
with us. So I just settled the difficulty by saying, 'Let's be married,
and then we can do as we like.'"

"Of course you did; you always have things to suit you."

"Not always;" and something in Laurie's voice made Jo say hastily,--

"How did you ever get aunt to agree?"

"It was hard work; but, between us, we talked her over, for we had heaps
of good reasons on our side. There wasn't time to write and ask leave,
but you all liked it, had consented to it by and by, and it was only
'taking Time by the fetlock,' as my wife says."

"Aren't we proud of those two words, and don't we like to say them?"
interrupted Jo, addressing the fire in her turn, and watching with
delight the happy light it seemed to kindle in the eyes that had been so
tragically gloomy when she saw them last.

"A trifle, perhaps; she's such a captivating little woman I can't help
being proud of her. Well, then, uncle and aunt were there to play
propriety; we were so absorbed in one another we were of no mortal use
apart, and that charming arrangement would make everything easy all
round; so we did it."

"When, where, how?" asked Jo, in a fever of feminine interest and
curiosity, for she could not realize it a particle.

"Six weeks ago, at the American consul's, in Paris; a very quiet
wedding, of course, for even in our happiness we didn't forget dear
little Beth."

Jo put her hand in his as he said that, and Laurie gently smoothed the
little red pillow, which he remembered well.

"Why didn't you let us know afterward?" asked Jo, in a quieter tone,
when they had sat quite still a minute.

"We wanted to surprise you; we thought we were coming directly home, at
first; but the dear old gentleman, as soon as we were married, found he
couldn't be ready under a month, at least, and sent us off to spend our
honeymoon wherever we liked. Amy had once called Valrosa a regular
honeymoon home, so we went there, and were as happy as people are but
once in their lives. My faith! wasn't it love among the roses!"

Laurie seemed to forget Jo for a minute, and Jo was glad of it; for the
fact that he told her these things so freely and naturally assured her
that he had quite forgiven and forgotten. She tried to draw away her
hand; but, as if he guessed the thought that prompted the
half-involuntary impulse, Laurie held it fast, and said, with a manly
gravity she had never seen in him before,--

"Jo, dear, I want to say one thing, and then we'll put it by forever. As
I told you in my letter, when I wrote that Amy had been so kind to me, I
never shall stop loving you; but the love is altered, and I have learned
to see that it is better as it is. Amy and you change places in my
heart, that's all. I think it was meant to be so, and would have come
about naturally, if I had waited, as you tried to make me; but I never
could be patient, and so I got a heartache. I was a boy then, headstrong
and violent; and it took a hard lesson to show me my mistake. For it
_was_ one, Jo, as you said, and I found it out, after making a fool of
myself. Upon my word, I was so tumbled up in my mind, at one time, that
I didn't know which I loved best, you or Amy, and tried to love both
alike; but I couldn't, and when I saw her in Switzerland, everything
seemed to clear up all at once. You both got into your right places, and
I felt sure that it was well off with the old love before it was on with
the new; that I could honestly share my heart between sister Jo and wife
Amy, and love them both dearly. Will you believe it, and go back to the
happy old times when we first knew one another?"

"I'll believe it, with all my heart; but, Teddy, we never can be boy and
girl again: the happy old times can't come back, and we mustn't expect
it. We are man and woman now, with sober work to do, for playtime is
over, and we must give up frolicking. I'm sure you feel this; I see the
change in you, and you'll find it in me. I shall miss my boy, but I
shall love the man as much, and admire him more, because he means to be
what I hoped he would. We can't be little playmates any longer, but we
will be brother and sister, to love and help one another all our lives,
won't we, Laurie?"

He did not say a word, but took the hand she offered him, and laid his
face down on it for a minute, feeling that out of the grave of a boyish
passion, there had risen a beautiful, strong friendship to bless them
both. Presently Jo said cheerfully, for she didn't want the coming home
to be a sad one,--

"I can't make it true that you children are really married, and going to
set up housekeeping. Why, it seems only yesterday that I was buttoning
Amy's pinafore, and pulling your hair when you teased. Mercy me, how
time does fly!"

"As one of the children is older than yourself, you needn't talk so like
a grandma. I flatter myself I'm a 'gentleman growed,' as Peggotty said
of David; and when you see Amy, you'll find her rather a precocious
infant," said Laurie, looking amused at her maternal air.

"You may be a little older in years, but I'm ever so much older in
feeling, Teddy. Women always are; and this last year has been such a
hard one that I feel forty."

"Poor Jo! we left you to bear it alone, while we went pleasuring. You
_are_ older; here's a line, and there's another; unless you smile, your
eyes look sad, and when I touched the cushion, just now, I found a tear
on it. You've had a great deal to bear, and had to bear it all alone.
What a selfish beast I've been!" and Laurie pulled his own hair, with a
remorseful look.

But Jo only turned over the traitorous pillow, and answered, in a tone
which she tried to make quite cheerful,--

"No, I had father and mother to help me, the dear babies to comfort me,
and the thought that you and Amy were safe and happy, to make the
troubles here easier to bear. I _am_ lonely, sometimes, but I dare say
it's good for me, and--"

"You never shall be again," broke in Laurie, putting his arm about her,
as if to fence out every human ill. "Amy and I can't get on without
you, so you must come and teach 'the children' to keep house, and go
halves in everything, just as we used to do, and let us pet you, and all
be blissfully happy and friendly together."

"If I shouldn't be in the way, it would be very pleasant. I begin to
feel quite young already; for, somehow, all my troubles seemed to fly
away when you came. You always were a comfort, Teddy;" and Jo leaned her
head on his shoulder, just as she did years ago, when Beth lay ill, and
Laurie told her to hold on to him.

He looked down at her, wondering if she remembered the time, but Jo was
smiling to herself, as if, in truth, her troubles _had_ all vanished at
his coming.

"You are the same Jo still, dropping tears about one minute, and
laughing the next. You look a little wicked now; what is it, grandma?"

"I was wondering how you and Amy get on together."

"Like angels!"

"Yes, of course, at first; but which rules?"

"I don't mind telling you that she does, now; at least I let her think
so,--it pleases her, you know. By and by we shall take turns, for
marriage, they say, halves one's rights and doubles one's duties."

"You'll go on as you begin, and Amy will rule you all the days of your
life."

"Well, she does it so imperceptibly that I don't think I shall mind
much. She is the sort of woman who knows how to rule well; in fact, I
rather like it, for she winds one round her finger as softly and
prettily as a skein of silk, and makes you feel as if she was doing you
a favor all the while."

"That ever I should live to see you a henpecked husband and enjoying
it!" cried Jo, with uplifted hands.

It was good to see Laurie square his shoulders, and smile with masculine
scorn at that insinuation, as he replied, with his "high and mighty"
air,--

"Amy is too well-bred for that, and I am not the sort of man to submit
to it. My wife and I respect ourselves and one another too much ever to
tyrannize or quarrel."

Jo liked that, and thought the new dignity very becoming, but the boy
seemed changing very fast into the man, and regret mingled with her
pleasure.

"I am sure of that; Amy and you never did quarrel as we used to. She is
the sun and I the wind, in the fable, and the sun managed the man best,
you remember."

"She can blow him up as well as shine on him," laughed Laurie. "Such a
lecture as I got at Nice! I give you my word it was a deal worse than
any of your scoldings,--a regular rouser. I'll tell you all about it
sometime,--_she_ never will, because, after telling me that she despised
and was ashamed of me, she lost her heart to the despicable party and
married the good-for-nothing."

"What baseness! Well, if she abuses you, come to me, and I'll defend
you."

"I look as if I needed it, don't I?" said Laurie, getting up and
striking an attitude which suddenly changed from the imposing to the
rapturous, as Amy's voice was heard calling,--

"Where is she? Where's my dear old Jo?"

In trooped the whole family, and every one was hugged and kissed all
over again, and, after several vain attempts, the three wanderers were
set down to be looked at and exulted over. Mr. Laurence, hale and hearty
as ever, was quite as much improved as the others by his foreign tour,
for the crustiness seemed to be nearly gone, and the old-fashioned
courtliness had received a polish which made it kindlier than ever. It
was good to see him beam at "my children," as he called the young pair;
it was better still to see Amy pay him the daughterly duty and affection
which completely won his old heart; and best of all, to watch Laurie
revolve about the two, as if never tired of enjoying the pretty picture
they made.

The minute she put her eyes upon Amy, Meg became conscious that her own
dress hadn't a Parisian air, that young Mrs. Moffat would be entirely
eclipsed by young Mrs. Laurence, and that "her ladyship" was altogether
a most elegant and graceful woman. Jo thought, as she watched the pair,
"How well they look together! I was right, and Laurie has found the
beautiful, accomplished girl who will become his home better than clumsy
old Jo, and be a pride, not a torment to him." Mrs. March and her
husband smiled and nodded at each other with happy faces, for they saw
that their youngest had done well, not only in worldly things, but the
better wealth of love, confidence, and happiness.

For Amy's face was full of the soft brightness which betokens a peaceful
heart, her voice had a new tenderness in it, and the cool, prim carriage
was changed to a gentle dignity, both womanly and winning. No little
affectations marred it, and the cordial sweetness of her manner was more
charming than the new beauty or the old grace, for it stamped her at
once with the unmistakable sign of the true gentlewoman she had hoped to
become.

"Love has done much for our little girl," said her mother softly.

"She has had a good example before her all her life, my dear," Mr. March
whispered back, with a loving look at the worn face and gray head beside
him.

Daisy found it impossible to keep her eyes off her "pitty aunty," but
attached herself like a lap-dog to the wonderful châtelaine full of
delightful charms. Demi paused to consider the new relationship before
he compromised himself by the rash acceptance of a bribe, which took the
tempting form of a family of wooden bears from Berne. A flank movement
produced an unconditional surrender, however, for Laurie knew where to
have him.

"Young man, when I first had the honor of making your acquaintance you
hit me in the face: now I demand the satisfaction of a gentleman;" and
with that the tall uncle proceeded to toss and tousle the small nephew
in a way that damaged his philosophical dignity as much as it delighted
his boyish soul.

  [Illustration: The tall uncle proceeded to toss and tousle the small
                                nephew]

"Blest if she ain't in silk from head to foot? Ain't it a relishin'
sight to see her settin' there as fine as a fiddle, and hear folks
calling little Amy, Mis. Laurence?" muttered old Hannah, who could not
resist frequent "peeks" through the slide as she set the table in a most
decidedly promiscuous manner.

Mercy on us, how they did talk! first one, then the other, then all
burst out together, trying to tell the history of three years in half an
hour. It was fortunate that tea was at hand, to produce a lull and
provide refreshment, for they would have been hoarse and faint if they
had gone on much longer. Such a happy procession as filed away into the
little dining-room! Mr. March proudly escorted "Mrs. Laurence;" Mrs.
March as proudly leaned on the arm of "my son;" the old gentleman took
Jo, with a whispered "You must be my girl now," and a glance at the
empty corner by the fire, that made Jo whisper back, with trembling
lips, "I'll try to fill her place, sir."

The twins pranced behind, feeling that the millennium was at hand, for
every one was so busy with the new-comers that they were left to revel
at their own sweet will, and you may be sure they made the most of the
opportunity. Didn't they steal sips of tea, stuff gingerbread _ab
libitum_, get a hot biscuit apiece, and, as a crowning trespass, didn't
they each whisk a captivating little tart into their tiny pockets, there
to stick and crumble treacherously, teaching them that both human nature
and pastry are frail? Burdened with the guilty consciousness of the
sequestered tarts, and fearing that Dodo's sharp eyes would pierce the
thin disguise of cambric and merino which hid their booty, the little
sinners attached themselves to "Dranpa," who hadn't his spectacles on.
Amy, who was handed about like refreshments, returned to the parlor on
Father Laurence's arm; the others paired off as before, and this
arrangement left Jo companionless. She did not mind it at the minute,
for she lingered to answer Hannah's eager inquiry,--

"Will Miss Amy ride in her coop (_coupé_), and use all them lovely
silver dishes that's stored away over yander?"

"Shouldn't wonder if she drove six white horses, ate off gold plate, and
wore diamonds and point-lace every day. Teddy thinks nothing too good
for her," returned Jo with infinite satisfaction.

"No more there is! Will you have hash or fish-balls for breakfast?"
asked Hannah, who wisely mingled poetry and prose.

"I don't care;" and Jo shut the door, feeling that food was an
uncongenial topic just then. She stood a minute looking at the party
vanishing above, and, as Demi's short plaid legs toiled up the last
stair, a sudden sense of loneliness came over her so strongly that she
looked about her with dim eyes, as if to find something to lean upon,
for even Teddy had deserted her. If she had known what birthday gift was
coming every minute nearer and nearer, she would not have said to
herself, "I'll weep a little weep when I go to bed; it won't do to be
dismal now." Then she drew her hand over her eyes,--for one of her
boyish habits was never to know where her handkerchief was,--and had
just managed to call up a smile when there came a knock at the
porch-door.

She opened it with hospitable haste, and started as if another ghost had
come to surprise her; for there stood a tall, bearded gentleman, beaming
on her from the darkness like a midnight sun.

"O Mr. Bhaer, I _am_ so glad to see you!" cried Jo, with a clutch, as if
she feared the night would swallow him up before she could get him in.

          [Illustration: O Mr. Bhaer, I am so glad to see you]

"And I to see Miss Marsch,--but no, you haf a party--" and the Professor
paused as the sound of voices and the tap of dancing feet came down to
them.

"No, we haven't, only the family. My sister and friends have just come
home, and we are all very happy. Come in, and make one of us."

Though a very social man, I think Mr. Bhaer would have gone decorously
away, and come again another day; but how could he, when Jo shut the
door behind him, and bereft him of his hat? Perhaps her face had
something to do with it, for she forgot to hide her joy at seeing him,
and showed it with a frankness that proved irresistible to the solitary
man, whose welcome far exceeded his boldest hopes.

"If I shall not be Monsieur de Trop, I will so gladly see them all. You
haf been ill, my friend?"

He put the question abruptly, for, as Jo hung up his coat, the light
fell on her face, and he saw a change in it.

"Not ill, but tired and sorrowful. We have had trouble since I saw you
last."

"Ah, yes, I know. My heart was sore for you when I heard that;" and he
shook hands again, with such a sympathetic face that Jo felt as if no
comfort could equal the look of the kind eyes, the grasp of the big,
warm hand.

"Father, mother, this is my friend, Professor Bhaer," she said, with a
face and tone of such irrepressible pride and pleasure that she might as
well have blown a trumpet and opened the door with a flourish.

If the stranger had had any doubts about his reception, they were set at
rest in a minute by the cordial welcome he received. Every one greeted
him kindly, for Jo's sake at first, but very soon they liked him for his
own. They could not help it, for he carried the talisman that opens all
hearts, and these simple people warmed to him at once, feeling even the
more friendly because he was poor; for poverty enriches those who live
above it, and is a sure passport to truly hospitable spirits. Mr. Bhaer
sat looking about him with the air of a traveller who knocks at a
strange door, and, when it opens, finds himself at home. The children
went to him like bees to a honey-pot; and, establishing themselves on
each knee, proceeded to captivate him by rifling his pockets, pulling
his beard, and investigating his watch, with juvenile audacity. The
women telegraphed their approval to one another, and Mr. March, feeling
that he had got a kindred spirit, opened his choicest stores for his
guest's benefit, while silent John listened and enjoyed the talk, but
said not a word, and Mr. Laurence found it impossible to go to sleep.

If Jo had not been otherwise engaged, Laurie's behavior would have
amused her; for a faint twinge, not of jealousy, but something like
suspicion, caused that gentleman to stand aloof at first, and observe
the new-comer with brotherly circumspection. But it did not last long.
He got interested in spite of himself, and, before he knew it, was drawn
into the circle; for Mr. Bhaer talked well in this genial atmosphere,
and did himself justice. He seldom spoke to Laurie, but he looked at him
often, and a shadow would pass across his face, as if regretting his own
lost youth, as he watched the young man in his prime. Then his eye would
turn to Jo so wistfully that she would have surely answered the mute
inquiry if she had seen it; but Jo had her own eyes to take care of,
and, feeling that they could not be trusted, she prudently kept them on
the little sock she was knitting, like a model maiden aunt.

A stealthy glance now and then refreshed her like sips of fresh water
after a dusty walk, for the sidelong peeps showed her several propitious
omens. Mr. Bhaer's face had lost the absent-minded expression, and
looked all alive with interest in the present moment, actually young and
handsome, she thought, forgetting to compare him with Laurie, as she
usually did strange men, to their great detriment. Then he seemed quite
inspired, though the burial customs of the ancients, to which the
conversation had strayed, might not be considered an exhilarating topic.
Jo quite glowed with triumph when Teddy got quenched in an argument, and
thought to herself, as she watched her father's absorbed face, "How he
would enjoy having such a man as my Professor to talk with every day!"
Lastly, Mr. Bhaer was dressed in a new suit of black, which made him
look more like a gentleman than ever. His bushy hair had been cut and
smoothly brushed, but didn't stay in order long, for, in exciting
moments, he rumpled it up in the droll way he used to do; and Jo liked
it rampantly erect better than flat, because she thought it gave his
fine forehead a Jove-like aspect. Poor Jo, how she did glorify that
plain man, as she sat knitting away so quietly, yet letting nothing
escape her, not even the fact that Mr. Bhaer actually had gold
sleeve-buttons in his immaculate wristbands!

"Dear old fellow! He couldn't have got himself up with more care if he'd
been going a-wooing," said Jo to herself; and then a sudden thought,
born of the words, made her blush so dreadfully that she had to drop her
ball, and go down after it to hide her face.

The manœuvre did not succeed as well as she expected, however; for,
though just in the act of setting fire to a funeral-pile, the Professor
dropped his torch, metaphorically speaking, and made a dive after the
little blue ball. Of course they bumped their heads smartly together,
saw stars, and both came up flushed and laughing, without the ball, to
resume their seats, wishing they had not left them.

Nobody knew where the evening went to; for Hannah skilfully abstracted
the babies at an early hour, nodding like two rosy poppies, and Mr.
Laurence went home to rest. The others sat round the fire, talking
away, utterly regardless of the lapse of time, till Meg, whose maternal
mind was impressed with a firm conviction that Daisy had tumbled out of
bed, and Demi set his night-gown afire studying the structure of
matches, made a move to go.

"We must have our sing, in the good old way, for we are all together
again once more," said Jo, feeling that a good shout would be a safe and
pleasant vent for the jubilant emotions of her soul.

They were not _all_ there. But no one found the words thoughtless or
untrue; for Beth still seemed among them, a peaceful presence,
invisible, but dearer than ever, since death could not break the
household league that love made indissoluble. The little chair stood in
its old place; the tidy basket, with the bit of work she left unfinished
when the needle grew "so heavy," was still on its accustomed shelf; the
beloved instrument, seldom touched now, had not been moved; and above it
Beth's face, serene and smiling, as in the early days, looked down upon
them, seeming to say, "Be happy. I am here."

"Play something, Amy. Let them hear how much you have improved," said
Laurie, with pardonable pride in his promising pupil.

But Amy whispered, with full eyes, as she twirled the faded stool,--

"Not to-night, dear. I can't show off to-night."

But she did show something better than brilliancy or skill; for she sung
Beth's songs with a tender music in her voice which the best master
could not have taught, and touched the listeners' hearts with a sweeter
power than any other inspiration could have given her. The room was very
still, when the clear voice failed suddenly at the last line of Beth's
favorite hymn. It was hard to say,--

        "Earth hath no sorrow that heaven cannot heal;"

and Amy leaned against her husband, who stood behind her, feeling that
her welcome home was not quite perfect without Beth's kiss.

"Now, we must finish with Mignon's song; for Mr. Bhaer sings that," said
Jo, before the pause grew painful. And Mr. Bhaer cleared his throat with
a gratified "Hem!" as he stepped into the corner where Jo stood,
saying,--

"You will sing with me? We go excellently well together."

A pleasing fiction, by the way; for Jo had no more idea of music than a
grasshopper. But she would have consented if he had proposed to sing a
whole opera, and warbled away, blissfully regardless of time and tune.
It didn't much matter; for Mr. Bhaer sang like a true German, heartily
and well; and Jo soon subsided into a subdued hum, that she might listen
to the mellow voice that seemed to sing for her alone.

                [Illustration: Mr. Bhaer sang heartily]

        "Know'st thou the land where the citron blooms,"

used to be the Professor's favorite line, for "das land" meant Germany
to him; but now he seemed to dwell, with peculiar warmth and melody,
upon the words,--

        "There, oh there, might I with thee,
         O my beloved, go!"

and one listener was so thrilled by the tender invitation that she
longed to say she did know the land, and would joyfully depart thither
whenever he liked.

The song was considered a great success, and the singer retired covered
with laurels. But a few minutes afterward, he forgot his manners
entirely, and stared at Amy putting on her bonnet; for she had been
introduced simply as "my sister," and no one had called her by her new
name since he came. He forgot himself still further when Laurie said, in
his most gracious manner, at parting,--

"My wife and I are very glad to meet you, sir. Please remember that
there is always a welcome waiting for you over the way."

Then the Professor thanked him so heartily, and looked so suddenly
illuminated with satisfaction, that Laurie thought him the most
delightfully demonstrative old fellow he ever met.

"I too shall go; but I shall gladly come again, if you will gif me
leave, dear madame, for a little business in the city will keep me here
some days."

He spoke to Mrs. March, but he looked at Jo; and the mother's voice gave
as cordial an assent as did the daughter's eyes; for Mrs. March was not
so blind to her children's interest as Mrs. Moffat supposed.

"I suspect that is a wise man," remarked Mr. March, with placid
satisfaction, from the hearth-rug, after the last guest had gone.

"I know he is a good one," added Mrs. March, with decided approval, as
she wound up the clock.

"I thought you'd like him," was all Jo said, as she slipped away to her
bed.

She wondered what the business was that brought Mr. Bhaer to the city,
and finally decided that he had been appointed to some great honor,
somewhere, but had been too modest to mention the fact. If she had seen
his face when, safe in his own room, he looked at the picture of a
severe and rigid young lady, with a good deal of hair, who appeared to
be gazing darkly into futurity, it might have thrown some light upon the
subject, especially when he turned off the gas, and kissed the picture
in the dark.

       [Illustration: Mrs. Laurence sitting in her mother's lap]

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

completion: Jo is sitting alone in the evening, thinking and having a little bit of alone time. She's almost 25 and feels like she has nothing to show for it. She thinks that she's going to be an old maid, focused on her career as an author instead of on a marriage to a man. The narrator discusses spinsterhood. To a girl in the nineteenth century, who was brought up for the sole purpose of finding a husband, not getting one might seem like the end of the world. But, the narrator says, we should be kind to old maids, because they're missing out on marriage, and because any girl could end up that way if things didn't work out for her. This passage is a little weirder because Louisa May Alcott was herself an old maid, and perfectly happy. The narrator stops lecturing us and returns to the plot. Jo looks up from the soft to see Laurie bending over her. She's excited to see him and gives him a big hug to welcome him back. Jo asks where Amy is, and Laurie tells her that his wife is at Meg's with Marmee. Jo is surprised but happy to learn that Amy and Laurie are already married! Jo and Laurie settle down to talk about this new state of affairs. Things are both more and less awkward between them - Laurie's not trying to make Jo love him anymore, but they can't really be close in the same way. Laurie explains that he and Amy got married early because their travel plans changed. The Carrols decided to stay in Paris for another winter, so Amy didn't have a chaperone home. So Laurie and Amy got married to make it proper and free them up to come back to the U.S. together with old Mr. Laurence. Laurie describes their wedding - Amy's aunt and uncle were there, and they knew that the Marches would approve, and his grandfather was also there, so it worked out OK. They had a quiet ceremony at the office of the American consul in Paris. It had to be quiet, because they're still mourning Beth. After their wedding, Amy and Laurie spent a month at Valrosa for their honeymoon. Laurie makes one last emotional speech to Jo. He explains that he still loves her, but in a different way - as a sister. He says that she was right that he should have waited to see how his feelings would develop, and that he'd find a wife more suited to him. Jo says that she believes him, but reminds him that they can't be kids together anymore; they have serious grown-up work to do in the world. Jo feels like time is flying; weren't they all playing together as children just yesterday? Laurie reminds her that he's older than she is. She counters by saying that she's aged emotionally in the wake of Beth's death. Laurie realizes how alone Jo has been in her grief - Meg has her husband and children, Laurie and Amy have each other, but Jo has been alone with her parents. Jo quickly distracts herself by wondering how Amy and Laurie get along together. Laurie says they get along very well, and mostly he lets Amy be in charge, but she's very subtle and gentle about it so he doesn't mind. Jo and Laurie are interrupted by Amy, who comes in with her mother, Mr. Laurence, Meg, Daisy, Demi, and everyone. The family members greet each other. Everyone notices how nice a couple Amy and Laurie make, and how nice it is to see how devoted they are to old Mr. Laurence. Meg notices Amy's new European dress and manners. Jo thinks that they make a perfect couple. Mr. and Mrs. March notice that Amy has made a good marriage - not just for money, but for love, too. Daisy and Demi are excited to see their aunt, whom they hardly remember, and their new uncle. Hannah is pleased to see Amy as a wealthy, dignified woman. Everyone talks at once, trying to tell each other about what's happened while they were apart. We find out that Amy and Laurie have been in Europe for three years. The family goes in to have their late evening meal, which they call tea. Everyone is too busy to look after the twins, who steal sweets. After the meal, everyone goes back into the parlor. The family is all paired off, except for Jo, who is left alone. She and Hannah discuss Amy's majestic appearance with satisfaction. Hannah goes back to the kitchen to start preparing tomorrow's breakfast. Jo, left by herself, is feeling especially lonely and sad. Suddenly, there is a knock at the door. Jo answers it and finds Mr. Bhaer on the doorstep! Mr. Bhaer tries to excuse himself, since the family has a party going on, but Jo insists that he come in and join them. Mr. Bhaer asks Jo why she looks so ill. She says she's been tired and sad after Beth's death, and he comforts her. Jo takes Mr. Bhaer into the parlor and introduces him to her family. Everyone greets him pleasantly and he seems to fit into the family right away. Laurie is suspicious of Mr. Bhaer at first, but gradually warms to him. Mr. Bhaer seems to think that Laurie and Jo are a couple. Jo sits in the corner knitting a sock and enjoying the way her family are impressed by Mr. Bhaer. She notices that he is dressed very nicely, especially for him, and wonders if he's courting someone. Then she realizes what that would mean for herself and drops her yarn in surprise. Jo and Mr. Bhaer dive for her ball of yarn at the same time and smack their heads together. The evening passes quickly, and soon the twins are in bed and old Mr. Laurence has gone home. Jo says that the family should sing, the way they used to each evening before bed, before the party breaks up. The idea of singing together makes everyone think of Beth and miss her. Amy plays some of Beth's songs. For the last song, Jo suggests a tune that Mr. Bhaer is especially good at singing, Mignon's song. Jo sings it with him as a duet. Nudge, nudge, foreshadowing! Maybe they'll be "singing" a lot of "duets" together soon! As everyone is departing, Mr. Bhaer realizes for the first time that Laurie is married to Amy. He's pretty excited about this discovery. Mr. Bhaer tells Mrs. March that he is going to be in town on business for a little while and asks for her permission to visit again, which she gives. He leaves with one last look at Jo. Mr. and Mrs. March tell Jo how much they like Professor Bhaer. Jo goes to bed, wondering what Mr. Bhaer's business in town is. Back in his room, Mr. Bhaer is looking at a picture of her. He gives it a kiss before he goes to sleep.


prompt:
Chapter: XLIV. MY LORD AND LADY.

"Please, Madam Mother, could you lend me my wife for half an hour? The
luggage has come, and I've been making hay of Amy's Paris finery, trying
to find some things I want," said Laurie, coming in the next day to find
Mrs. Laurence sitting in her mother's lap, as if being made "the baby"
again.

"Certainly. Go, dear; I forget that you have any home but this," and
Mrs. March pressed the white hand that wore the wedding-ring, as if
asking pardon for her maternal covetousness.

"I shouldn't have come over if I could have helped it; but I can't get
on without my little woman any more than a--"

"Weathercock can without wind," suggested Jo, as he paused for a simile;
Jo had grown quite her own saucy self again since Teddy came home.

"Exactly; for Amy keeps me pointing due west most of the time, with only
an occasional whiffle round to the south, and I haven't had an easterly
spell since I was married; don't know anything about the north, but am
altogether salubrious and balmy, hey, my lady?"

"Lovely weather so far; I don't know how long it will last, but I'm not
afraid of storms, for I'm learning how to sail my ship. Come home, dear,
and I'll find your bootjack; I suppose that's what you are rummaging
after among my things. Men are _so_ helpless, mother," said Amy, with a
matronly air, which delighted her husband.

"What are you going to do with yourselves after you get settled?" asked
Jo, buttoning Amy's cloak as she used to button her pinafores.

"We have our plans; we don't mean to say much about them yet, because we
are such very new brooms, but we don't intend to be idle. I'm going into
business with a devotion that shall delight grandfather, and prove to
him that I'm not spoilt. I need something of the sort to keep me steady.
I'm tired of dawdling, and mean to work like a man."

"And Amy, what is she going to do?" asked Mrs. March, well pleased at
Laurie's decision, and the energy with which he spoke.

"After doing the civil all round, and airing our best bonnet, we shall
astonish you by the elegant hospitalities of our mansion, the brilliant
society we shall draw about us, and the beneficial influence we shall
exert over the world at large. That's about it, isn't it, Madame
Récamier?" asked Laurie, with a quizzical look at Amy.

"Time will show. Come away, Impertinence, and don't shock my family by
calling me names before their faces," answered Amy, resolving that there
should be a home with a good wife in it before she set up a _salon_ as a
queen of society.

"How happy those children seem together!" observed Mr. March, finding it
difficult to become absorbed in his Aristotle after the young couple had
gone.

"Yes, and I think it will last," added Mrs. March, with the restful
expression of a pilot who has brought a ship safely into port.

"I know it will. Happy Amy!" and Jo sighed, then smiled brightly as
Professor Bhaer opened the gate with an impatient push.

Later in the evening, when his mind had been set at rest about the
bootjack, Laurie said suddenly to his wife, who was flitting about,
arranging her new art treasures,--

"Mrs. Laurence."

"My lord!"

"That man intends to marry our Jo!"

"I hope so; don't you, dear?"

"Well, my love, I consider him a trump, in the fullest sense of that
expressive word, but I do wish he was a little younger and a good deal
richer."

"Now, Laurie, don't be too fastidious and worldly-minded. If they love
one another it doesn't matter a particle how old they are nor how poor.
Women _never_ should marry for money--" Amy caught herself up short as
the words escaped her, and looked at her husband, who replied, with
malicious gravity,--

"Certainly not, though you do hear charming girls say that they intend
to do it sometimes. If my memory serves me, you once thought it your
duty to make a rich match; that accounts, perhaps, for your marrying a
good-for-nothing like me."

"O my dearest boy, don't, don't say that! I forgot you were rich when I
said 'Yes.' I'd have married you if you hadn't a penny, and I sometimes
wish you _were_ poor that I might show how much I love you;" and Amy,
who was very dignified in public and very fond in private, gave
convincing proofs of the truth of her words.

"You don't really think I am such a mercenary creature as I tried to be
once, do you? It would break my heart if you didn't believe that I'd
gladly pull in the same boat with you, even if you had to get your
living by rowing on the lake."

"Am I an idiot and a brute? How could I think so, when you refused a
richer man for me, and won't let me give you half I want to now, when I
have the right? Girls do it every day, poor things, and are taught to
think it is their only salvation; but you had better lessons, and,
though I trembled for you at one time, I was not disappointed, for the
daughter was true to the mother's teaching. I told mamma so yesterday,
and she looked as glad and grateful as if I'd given her a check for a
million, to be spent in charity. You are not listening to my moral
remarks, Mrs. Laurence;" and Laurie paused, for Amy's eyes had an absent
look, though fixed upon his face.

"Yes, I am, and admiring the dimple in your chin at the same time. I
don't wish to make you vain, but I must confess that I'm prouder of my
handsome husband than of all his money. Don't laugh, but your nose is
_such_ a comfort to me;" and Amy softly caressed the well-cut feature
with artistic satisfaction.

Laurie had received many compliments in his life, but never one that
suited him better, as he plainly showed, though he did laugh at his
wife's peculiar taste, while she said slowly,--

"May I ask you a question, dear?"

"Of course you may."

"Shall you care if Jo does marry Mr. Bhaer?"

"Oh, that's the trouble, is it? I thought there was something in the
dimple that didn't suit you. Not being a dog in the manger, but the
happiest fellow alive, I assure you I can dance at Jo's wedding with a
heart as light as my heels. Do you doubt it, my darling?"

Amy looked up at him, and was satisfied; her last little jealous fear
vanished forever, and she thanked him, with a face full of love and
confidence.

"I wish we could do something for that capital old Professor. Couldn't
we invent a rich relation, who shall obligingly die out there in
Germany, and leave him a tidy little fortune?" said Laurie, when they
began to pace up and down the long drawing-room, arm-in-arm, as they
were fond of doing, in memory of the chateau garden.

             [Illustration: They began to pace up and down]

"Jo would find us out, and spoil it all; she is very proud of him, just
as he is, and said yesterday that she thought poverty was a beautiful
thing."

"Bless her dear heart! she won't think so when she has a literary
husband, and a dozen little professors and professorins to support. We
won't interfere now, but watch our chance, and do them a good turn in
spite of themselves. I owe Jo for a part of my education, and she
believes in people's paying their honest debts, so I'll get round her in
that way."

"How delightful it is to be able to help others, isn't it? That was
always one of my dreams, to have the power of giving freely; and, thanks
to you, the dream has come true."

"Ah! we'll do quantities of good, won't we? There's one sort of poverty
that I particularly like to help. Out-and-out beggars get taken care of,
but poor gentlefolks fare badly, because they won't ask, and people
don't dare to offer charity; yet there are a thousand ways of helping
them, if one only knows how to do it so delicately that it does not
offend. I must say, I like to serve a decayed gentleman better than a
blarneying beggar; I suppose it's wrong, but I do, though it is
harder."

"Because it takes a gentleman to do it," added the other member of the
domestic admiration society.

"Thank you, I'm afraid I don't deserve that pretty compliment. But I was
going to say that while I was dawdling about abroad, I saw a good many
talented young fellows making all sorts of sacrifices, and enduring real
hardships, that they might realize their dreams. Splendid fellows, some
of them, working like heroes, poor and friendless, but so full of
courage, patience, and ambition, that I was ashamed of myself, and
longed to give them a right good lift. Those are people whom it's a
satisfaction to help, for if they've got genius, it's an honor to be
allowed to serve them, and not let it be lost or delayed for want of
fuel to keep the pot boiling; if they haven't, it's a pleasure to
comfort the poor souls, and keep them from despair when they find it
out."

"Yes, indeed; and there's another class who can't ask, and who suffer in
silence. I know something of it, for I belonged to it before you made a
princess of me, as the king does the beggar-maid in the old story.
Ambitious girls have a hard time, Laurie, and often have to see youth,
health, and precious opportunities go by, just for want of a little help
at the right minute. People have been very kind to me; and whenever I
see girls struggling along, as we used to do, I want to put out my hand
and help them, as I was helped."

"And so you shall, like an angel as you are!" cried Laurie, resolving,
with a glow of philanthropic zeal, to found and endow an institution for
the express benefit of young women with artistic tendencies. "Rich
people have no right to sit down and enjoy themselves, or let their
money accumulate for others to waste. It's not half so sensible to leave
legacies when one dies as it is to use the money wisely while alive, and
enjoy making one's fellow-creatures happy with it. We'll have a good
time ourselves, and add an extra relish to our own pleasure by giving
other people a generous taste. Will you be a little Dorcas, going about
emptying a big basket of comforts, and filling it up with good deeds?"

"With all my heart, if you will be a brave St. Martin, stopping, as you
ride gallantly through the world, to share your cloak with the beggar."

"It's a bargain, and we shall get the best of it!"

So the young pair shook hands upon it, and then paced happily on again,
feeling that their pleasant home was more home-like because they hoped
to brighten other homes, believing that their own feet would walk more
uprightly along the flowery path before them, if they smoothed rough
ways for other feet, and feeling that their hearts were more closely
knit together by a love which could tenderly remember those less blest
than they.

                       [Illustration: Tail-piece]

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

completion: Laurie comes over to the March household and asks Marmee if he can borrow Amy to help him find something in their luggage. Laurie, Jo, and Marmee talk about the way that Amy keeps Laurie on the straight and narrow. As Jo helps Amy put her coat on, she asks what the newly-married Laurences are going to do with themselves. Neither of them needs to work, since Laurie is rich, but they do have plans. Laurie says that he's going to go into business, if only to give him something to do and to keep him from getting into trouble. Amy, as his wife, is going to entertain all the most important people in society at their mansion. Amy and Laurie go off together. Mr. and Mrs. March comment on how happy they seem and what a good couple they make. Jo sighs, but then smiles as Mr. Bhaer comes in! Later that evening, Amy and Laurie talk about the family and their plans. Laurie says to Amy that Mr. Bhaer seems interested in marrying Jo. Amy says that she hopes he will. Laurie wishes Mr. Bhaer was younger and richer. Amy scolds Laurie and starts talking about how women shouldn't marry for money, which makes them both laugh, since she used to claim she would do exactly that. In fact, Amy has married a rich man - but not for his money! She's comforted by his aristocratic appearance, too; he has the nose that she's always wanted. Amy asks Laurie if he will mind if Jo marries Mr. Bhaer. She seems a little bit worried that Laurie might still have romantic feelings for Jo. Laurie assures her that all his romance is directed at her, not at Jo. Amy's last bit of jealousy vanishes forever. Amy and Laurie speculate on how to use their fortune. They wish they could give money to Jo and Mr. Bhaer, but they know their help wouldn't be accepted. Laurie suggests that he and Amy focus on using their fortune to help "poor gentle folks" instead of "out and out beggars." This is a common nineteenth-century idea - that there are "deserving" and "undeserving" poor people. We're not sure we agree, but Amy and Laurie might have something when they say that some kinds of poverty are more invisible to society. They want to help people who aren't necessarily asking for help, but still need it. Laurie describes the talented young men that he has met abroad who were trying to make their way in the world and needed just a little help. Amy describes girls like herself, who have respectable backgrounds but no money, and miss opportunities. Laurie and Amy agree that they will use their money to help people who are working hard and need just a little assistance to get ahead in the world. They're the nineteenth-century novel equivalent of something like small business loans from the government or scholarships - they're going to give small amounts of money here and there, in subtle ways, to fund projects that wouldn't happen otherwise, and help people succeed. Laurie and Amy's resolution to use their money well draws them closer together in their marriage.


prompt:
Chapter: XLV. DAISY AND DEMI.

I cannot feel that I have done my duty as humble historian of the March
family, without devoting at least one chapter to the two most precious
and important members of it. Daisy and Demi had now arrived at years of
discretion; for in this fast age babies of three or four assert their
rights, and get them, too, which is more than many of their elders do.
If there ever were a pair of twins in danger of being utterly spoilt by
adoration, it was these prattling Brookes. Of course they were the most
remarkable children ever born, as will be shown when I mention that they
walked at eight months, talked fluently at twelve months, and at two
years they took their places at table, and behaved with a propriety
which charmed all beholders. At three, Daisy demanded a "needler," and
actually made a bag with four stitches in it; she likewise set up
housekeeping in the sideboard, and managed a microscopic cooking-stove
with a skill that brought tears of pride to Hannah's eyes, while Demi
learned his letters with his grandfather, who invented a new mode of
teaching the alphabet by forming the letters with his arms and legs,
thus uniting gymnastics for head and heels. The boy early developed a
mechanical genius which delighted his father and distracted his mother,
for he tried to imitate every machine he saw, and kept the nursery in a
chaotic condition, with his "sewin-sheen,"--a mysterious structure of
string, chairs, clothes-pins, and spools, for wheels to go "wound and
wound;" also a basket hung over the back of a big chair, in which he
vainly tried to hoist his too confiding sister, who, with feminine
devotion, allowed her little head to be bumped till rescued, when the
young inventor indignantly remarked, "Why, marmar, dat's my lellywaiter,
and me's trying to pull her up."

Though utterly unlike in character, the twins got on remarkably well
together, and seldom quarrelled more than thrice a day. Of course, Demi
tyrannized over Daisy, and gallantly defended her from every other
aggressor; while Daisy made a galley-slave of herself, and adored her
brother as the one perfect being in the world. A rosy, chubby, sunshiny
little soul was Daisy, who found her way to everybody's heart, and
nestled there. One of the captivating children, who seem made to be
kissed and cuddled, adorned and adored like little goddesses, and
produced for general approval on all festive occasions. Her small
virtues were so sweet that she would have been quite angelic if a few
small naughtinesses had not kept her delightfully human. It was all fair
weather in her world, and every morning she scrambled up to the window
in her little night-gown to look out, and say, no matter whether it
rained or shone, "Oh, pitty day, oh, pitty day!" Every one was a friend,
and she offered kisses to a stranger so confidingly that the most
inveterate bachelor relented, and baby-lovers became faithful
worshippers.

                   [Illustration: Me loves evvybody]

"Me loves evvybody," she once said, opening her arms, with her spoon in
one hand, and her mug in the other, as if eager to embrace and nourish
the whole world.

As she grew, her mother began to feel that the Dove-cote would be blest
by the presence of an inmate as serene and loving as that which had
helped to make the old house home, and to pray that she might be spared
a loss like that which had lately taught them how long they had
entertained an angel unawares. Her grandfather often called her "Beth,"
and her grandmother watched over her with untiring devotion, as if
trying to atone for some past mistake, which no eye but her own could
see.

Demi, like a true Yankee, was of an inquiring turn, wanting to know
everything, and often getting much disturbed because he could not get
satisfactory answers to his perpetual "What for?"

He also possessed a philosophic bent, to the great delight of his
grandfather, who used to hold Socratic conversations with him, in which
the precocious pupil occasionally posed his teacher, to the undisguised
satisfaction of the womenfolk.

             [Illustration: What makes my legs go, dranpa?]

"What makes my legs go, dranpa?" asked the young philosopher, surveying
those active portions of his frame with a meditative air, while resting
after a go-to-bed frolic one night.

"It's your little mind, Demi," replied the sage, stroking the yellow
head respectfully.

"What is a little mine?"

"It is something which makes your body move, as the spring made the
wheels go in my watch when I showed it to you."

"Open me; I want to see it go wound."

"I can't do that any more than you could open the watch. God winds you
up, and you go till He stops you."

"Does I?" and Demi's brown eyes grew big and bright as he took in the
new thought. "Is I wounded up like the watch?"

"Yes; but I can't show you how; for it is done when we don't see."

Demi felt of his back, as if expecting to find it like that of the
watch, and then gravely remarked,--

"I dess Dod does it when I's asleep."

A careful explanation followed, to which he listened so attentively that
his anxious grandmother said,--

"My dear, do you think it wise to talk about such things to that baby?
He's getting great bumps over his eyes, and learning to ask the most
unanswerable questions."

"If he is old enough to ask the questions he is old enough to receive
true answers. I am not putting the thoughts into his head, but helping
him unfold those already there. These children are wiser than we are,
and I have no doubt the boy understands every word I have said to him.
Now, Demi, tell me where you keep your mind?"

If the boy had replied like Alcibiades, "By the gods, Socrates, I cannot
tell," his grandfather would not have been surprised; but when, after
standing a moment on one leg, like a meditative young stork, he
answered, in a tone of calm conviction, "In my little belly," the old
gentleman could only join in grandma's laugh, and dismiss the class in
metaphysics.

There might have been cause for maternal anxiety, if Demi had not given
convincing proofs that he was a true boy, as well as a budding
philosopher; for, often, after a discussion which caused Hannah to
prophesy, with ominous nods, "That child ain't long for this world," he
would turn about and set her fears at rest by some of the pranks with
which dear, dirty, naughty little rascals distract and delight their
parents' souls.

Meg made many moral rules, and tried to keep them; but what mother was
ever proof against the winning wiles, the ingenious evasions, or the
tranquil audacity of the miniature men and women who so early show
themselves accomplished Artful Dodgers?

"No more raisins, Demi, they'll make you sick," says mamma to the young
person who offers his services in the kitchen with unfailing regularity
on plum-pudding day.

"Me likes to be sick."

"I don't want to have you, so run away and help Daisy make patty-cakes."

He reluctantly departs, but his wrongs weigh upon his spirit; and, by
and by, when an opportunity comes to redress them, he outwits mamma by a
shrewd bargain.

"Now you have been good children, and I'll play anything you like," says
Meg, as she leads her assistant cooks upstairs, when the pudding is
safely bouncing in the pot.

"Truly, marmar?" asks Demi, with a brilliant idea in his well-powdered
head.

"Yes, truly; anything you say," replies the short-sighted parent,
preparing herself to sing "The Three Little Kittens" half a dozen times
over, or to take her family to "Buy a penny bun," regardless of wind or
limb. But Demi corners her by the cool reply,--

"Then we'll go and eat up all the raisins."

Aunt Dodo was chief playmate and _confidante_ of both children, and the
trio turned the little house topsy-turvy. Aunt Amy was as yet only a
name to them, Aunt Beth soon faded into a pleasantly vague memory, but
Aunt Dodo was a living reality, and they made the most of her, for which
compliment she was deeply grateful. But when Mr. Bhaer came, Jo
neglected her playfellows, and dismay and desolation fell upon their
little souls. Daisy, who was fond of going about peddling kisses, lost
her best customer and became bankrupt; Demi, with infantile penetration,
soon discovered that Dodo liked to play with "the bear-man" better than
she did with him; but, though hurt, he concealed his anguish, for he
hadn't the heart to insult a rival who kept a mine of chocolate-drops in
his waistcoat-pocket, and a watch that could be taken out of its case
and freely shaken by ardent admirers.

Some persons might have considered these pleasing liberties as bribes;
but Demi didn't see it in that light, and continued to patronize the
"bear-man" with pensive affability, while Daisy bestowed her small
affections upon him at the third call, and considered his shoulder her
throne, his arm her refuge, his gifts treasures of surpassing worth.

Gentlemen are sometimes seized with sudden fits of admiration for the
young relatives of ladies whom they honor with their regard; but this
counterfeit philoprogenitiveness sits uneasily upon them, and does not
deceive anybody a particle. Mr. Bhaer's devotion was sincere, however
likewise effective,--for honesty is the best policy in love as in law;
he was one of the men who are at home with children, and looked
particularly well when little faces made a pleasant contrast with his
manly one. His business, whatever it was, detained him from day to day,
but evening seldom failed to bring him out to see--well, he always asked
for Mr. March, so I suppose _he_ was the attraction. The excellent papa
labored under the delusion that he was, and revelled in long discussions
with the kindred spirit, till a chance remark of his more observing
grandson suddenly enlightened him.

Mr. Bhaer came in one evening to pause on the threshold of the study,
astonished by the spectacle that met his eye. Prone upon the floor lay
Mr. March, with his respectable legs in the air, and beside him,
likewise prone, was Demi, trying to imitate the attitude with his own
short, scarlet-stockinged legs, both grovellers so seriously absorbed
that they were unconscious of spectators, till Mr. Bhaer laughed his
sonorous laugh, and Jo cried out, with a scandalized face,--

"Father, father, here's the Professor!"

Down went the black legs and up came the gray head, as the preceptor
said, with undisturbed dignity,--

"Good evening, Mr. Bhaer. Excuse me for a moment; we are just finishing
our lesson. Now, Demi, make the letter and tell its name."

"I knows him!" and, after a few convulsive efforts, the red legs took
the shape of a pair of compasses, and the intelligent pupil triumphantly
shouted, "It's a We, dranpa, it's a We!"

                   [Illustration: Dranpa, it's a We]

"He's a born Weller," laughed Jo, as her parent gathered himself up, and
her nephew tried to stand on his head, as the only mode of expressing
his satisfaction that school was over.

"What have you been at to-day, bübchen?" asked Mr. Bhaer, picking up the
gymnast.

"Me went to see little Mary."

"And what did you there?"

"I kissed her," began Demi, with artless frankness.

"Prut! thou beginnest early. What did the little Mary say to that?"
asked Mr. Bhaer, continuing to confess the young sinner, who stood upon
his knee, exploring the waistcoat-pocket.

"Oh, she liked it, and she kissed me, and I liked it. _Don't_ little
boys like little girls?" added Demi, with his mouth full, and an air of
bland satisfaction.

"You precocious chick! Who put that into your head?" said Jo, enjoying
the innocent revelations as much as the Professor.

"'Tisn't in mine head; it's in mine mouf," answered literal Demi,
putting out his tongue, with a chocolate-drop on it, thinking she
alluded to confectionery, not ideas.

"Thou shouldst save some for the little friend: sweets to the sweet,
mannling;" and Mr. Bhaer offered Jo some, with a look that made her
wonder if chocolate was not the nectar drunk by the gods. Demi also saw
the smile, was impressed by it, and artlessly inquired,--

"Do great boys like great girls, too, 'Fessor?"

Like young Washington, Mr. Bhaer "couldn't tell a lie;" so he gave the
somewhat vague reply that he believed they did sometimes, in a tone that
made Mr. March put down his clothes-brush, glance at Jo's retiring face,
and then sink into his chair, looking as if the "precocious chick" had
put an idea into _his_ head that was both sweet and sour.

Why Dodo, when she caught him in the china-closet half an hour
afterward, nearly squeezed the breath out of his little body with a
tender embrace, instead of shaking him for being there, and why she
followed up this novel performance by the unexpected gift of a big slice
of bread and jelly, remained one of the problems over which Demi puzzled
his small wits, and was forced to leave unsolved forever.

                       [Illustration: Tail-piece]

       [Illustration: Mr. Bhaer and Jo were enjoying promenades]

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

completion: The narrator decides to give us a chapter about two of the youngest members of the extended March family - Daisy and Demi, Meg's twins. The twins are precocious and in danger of being spoiled. Daisy begins trying to sew like her mother when she's only three, and Demi starts learning the alphabet at the same time. Mr. March teaches his grandson the alphabet using a game in which they make the shapes of the letters with their bodies. It's sort of a "YMCA meets Sesame Street" kind of thing. Demi is also very interested in mechanics and physics - he even tries to make his own elevator out of a basket hung over a chair. Daisy, the unfortunate passenger in this elevator, gets her head smacked against the chair a lot. The twins mostly get along well, even though their personalities are really different. Daisy is an unnaturally sweet, quiet girl interested in all things domestic. She reminds her grandparents of Beth, the daughter they lost. Demi is completely different from Daisy - he's very inquisitive and mischievous. One day Demi asks his grandfather what makes his legs move, and they end up having a conversation about how the mind works, and how human beings are related to God. Grandma - that's Marmee - is worried that this is too much for the child to understand, but Mr. March says that if he's old enough to ask a question, he's old enough to get a true answer. Demi is also constantly causing mischief. One day Meg tries to stop him from eating too many raisins, but when she promises later in the day to play any game he wants, he chooses "eating all the raisins." Jo, called Aunt Dodo, plays a lot with both of the children. After Mr. Bhaer starts hanging around, she neglects them. They're sad that she doesn't pay as much attention to him, but they both like Mr. Bhaer, who is good with children. Mr. Bhaer always asks for Mr. March, and the two men talk about philosophy, but nobody is deceived; they all know that he's really interested in Jo. One day, Demi puts Mr. Bhaer and Jo in an awkward position; he asks if big boys like big girls, the way that he likes one of the little girls he knows. Mr. Bhaer blushes and says, well, he thinks sometimes they do. Jo rewards Demi for this awkward question by giving him a slice of bread and jelly. Demi doesn't know why, but he's happy to take it!