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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Don't you neglect him?"

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

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

"I don't see how."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oughtn't I to be there?"

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

"You really think so, Mother?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Taking advantage of the propitious moment, Meg slipped away and ran
down to greet her husband with a smiling face and the little blue bow
in her hair which was his especial admiration.  He saw it at once and
said with pleased surprise, "Why, little mother, how gay we are
tonight.  Do you expect company?"

"Only you, dear."

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

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

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

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

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

"Opy doy.  Me's tummin!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Meg returned to her place, and supper was progressing pleasantly, when
the little ghost walked again, and exposed the maternal delinquencies
by boldly demanding, "More sudar, Marmar."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Please let me kiss him once, John?"

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

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

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

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

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

As Meg stood watching the two faces on the pillow, she smiled to
herself, and then slipped away again, saying in a satisfied tone, "I
never need fear that John will be too harsh with my babies.  He does
know how to manage them, and will be a great help, for Demi is getting
too much for me."

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

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

"She is trying to like politics for my sake, so I'll try and like
millinery for hers, that's only fair," thought John the Just, adding
aloud, "That's very pretty.  Is it what you call a breakfast cap?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

completion: On the Shelf Meg is spending so much time taking care of her babies that she rarely spends time with Mr. Brooke. After half a year of this behavior, he takes to going over to a friend's house at night. When he begins to spend less time with the children, Meg is saddened by his absence. Marmee figures out what the trouble is and suggests that Meg make an effort to be more interested in her husband's affairs and to be more presentable and loving. She says that Meg needs to work on her relationship with her husband as well as her relationship with her children. Meg resolves to try Marmee's advice: she puts the children to bed early, makes a nice dinner, and dresses up. John comes home and is pleased with what he sees. Demi, however, will not go to sleep. John takes over, reprimanding his son and making sure that he minds his mother. This night marks a change: Meg and John begin sharing the childrearing responsibilities and, as a result, spend more time together in their home.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Very soon."

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

"I dare say, short answers save trouble."

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

"Hospitable creature!  I know it."

"Then why don't you do it?"

"Natural depravity, I suppose."

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

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

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

"What are you doing just now?"

"Watching lizards."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Wish I was!"

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

Laurie saw and understood the affectionate anxiety which she hesitated
to express, and looking straight into her eyes, said, just as he used
to say it to her mother, "It's all right, ma'am."

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

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

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

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

"I've none to tell.  You may begin."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Amy preserved a discreet silence, but there was a conscious look in her
downcast face that made Laurie sit up and say gravely, "Now I'm going
to play brother, and ask questions.  May I?"

"I don't promise to answer."

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

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

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

"No."

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

"Very likely."

"Then you are fond of old Fred?"

"I could be, if I tried."

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

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

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

"True, nevertheless."

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

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

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

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

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

"You'd be angry in five minutes."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Pining to be told."

"Well, I despise you."

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

"Why, if you please?"

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

"Strong language, mademoiselle."

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

"Pray do, it's quite interesting."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In a minute a hand came down over the page, so that she could not draw,
and Laurie's voice said, with a droll imitation of a penitent child, "I
will be good, oh, I will be good!"

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

"So do I!"

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

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

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

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

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

"I beg pardon, I thought..." and there she paused diplomatically.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That's impossible."

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

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

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

"How well you draw!" he said, with a genuine surprise and pleasure at
her skill, adding, with a half-laugh, "Yes, that's me."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Goodbye, dear," and with these words, uttered in the tone she liked,
Laurie left her, after a handshake almost painful in its heartiness.

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

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

Yours gratefully, Telemachus

"Good boy!  I'm glad he's gone," said Amy, with an approving smile. The
next minute her face fell as she glanced about the empty room, adding,
with an involuntary sigh, "Yes, I am glad, but how I shall miss him."

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

completion: Lazy Laurence Although Laurie originally intends to spend a week in Nice, he ends up staying for a month in order to enjoy Amy's company. While he is there, Amy becomes more and more distressed at his laziness and bad humor. One day, they go for a drive to a scenic hilltop villa so that Amy can sketch. While there, Amy decides to lecture Laurie, telling him that he should be more attentive to his grandfather and that he should find a way to keep himself busy. Soon, she figures out that Jo has refused his marriage proposal, and she becomes somewhat more sympathetic. Still, she tells him not to waste his talents by sitting around moping. The next morning, she gets a note saying that he has heeded her advice and is on his way to see his grandfather. Although she will miss him, she is pleased that he has taken her advice


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    MY BETH

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

completion: The Valley of the Shadow Because of Beth's failing health, the family sets up a lovely room for her. In it they place her piano, Amy's sketches, and other beautiful things. Meg also brings the babies over to brighten Beth's days. As time passes, Beth gets weaker, but she is not afraid of death. Jo writes a poem about all Beth has meant to her, which pleases Beth, who worries that her life has been useless. Before Beth dies, she asks Jo to take care of their parents. Beth passes away peacefully


prompt:
Chapter: Amy's lecture did Laurie good, though, of course, he did not own it
till long afterward.  Men seldom do, for when women are the advisers,
the lords of creation don't take the advice till they have persuaded
themselves that it is just what they intended to do.  Then they act
upon it, and, if it succeeds, they give the weaker vessel half the
credit of it.  If it fails, they generously give her the whole.  Laurie
went back to his grandfather, and was so dutifully devoted for several
weeks that the old gentleman declared the climate of Nice had improved
him wonderfully, and he had better try it again. There was nothing the
young gentleman would have liked better, but elephants could not have
dragged him back after the scolding he had received.  Pride forbid, and
whenever the longing grew very strong, he fortified his resolution by
repeating the words that had made the deepest impression--"I despise
you." "Go and do something splendid that will make her love you."

Laurie turned the matter over in his mind so often that he soon brought
himself to confess that he had been selfish and lazy, but then when a
man has a great sorrow, he should be indulged in all sorts of vagaries
till he has lived it down.  He felt that his blighted affections were
quite dead now, and though he should never cease to be a faithful
mourner, there was no occasion to wear his weeds ostentatiously.  Jo
wouldn't love him, but he might make her respect and admire him by
doing something which should prove that a girl's 'No' had not spoiled
his life.  He had always meant to do something, and Amy's advice was
quite unnecessary.  He had only been waiting till the aforesaid
blighted affections were decently interred. That being done, he felt
that he was ready to 'hide his stricken heart, and still toil on'.

As Goethe, when he had a joy or a grief, put it into a song, so Laurie
resolved to embalm his love sorrow in music, and to compose a Requiem
which should harrow up Jo's soul and melt the heart of every hearer.
Therefore the next time the old gentleman found him getting restless
and moody and ordered him off, he went to Vienna, where he had musical
friends, and fell to work with the firm determination to distinguish
himself.  But whether the sorrow was too vast to be embodied in music,
or music too ethereal to uplift a mortal woe, he soon discovered that
the Requiem was beyond him just at present.  It was evident that his
mind was not in working order yet, and his ideas needed clarifying, for
often in the middle of a plaintive strain, he would find himself
humming a dancing tune that vividly recalled the Christmas ball at
Nice, especially the stout Frenchman, and put an effectual stop to
tragic composition for the time being.

Then he tried an opera, for nothing seemed impossible in the beginning,
but here again unforeseen difficulties beset him.  He wanted Jo for his
heroine, and called upon his memory to supply him with tender
recollections and romantic visions of his love.  But memory turned
traitor, and as if possessed by the perverse spirit of the girl, would
only recall Jo's oddities, faults, and freaks, would only show her in
the most unsentimental aspects--beating mats with her head tied up in a
bandanna, barricading herself with the sofa pillow, or throwing cold
water over his passion a la Gummidge--and an irresistable laugh spoiled
the pensive picture he was endeavoring to paint.  Jo wouldn't be put
into the opera at any price, and he had to give her up with a "Bless
that girl, what a torment she is!" and a clutch at his hair, as became
a distracted composer.

When he looked about him for another and a less intractable damsel to
immortalize in melody, memory produced one with the most obliging
readiness.  This phantom wore many faces, but it always had golden
hair, was enveloped in a diaphanous cloud, and floated airily before
his mind's eye in a pleasing chaos of roses, peacocks, white ponies,
and blue ribbons.  He did not give the complacent wraith any name, but
he took her for his heroine and grew quite fond of her, as well he
might, for he gifted her with every gift and grace under the sun, and
escorted her, unscathed, through trials which would have annihilated
any mortal woman.

Thanks to this inspiration, he got on swimmingly for a time, but
gradually the work lost its charm, and he forgot to compose, while he
sat musing, pen in hand, or roamed about the gay city to get some new
ideas and refresh his mind, which seemed to be in a somewhat unsettled
state that winter.  He did not do much, but he thought a great deal and
was conscious of a change of some sort going on in spite of himself.
"It's genius simmering, perhaps.  I'll let it simmer, and see what
comes of it," he said, with a secret suspicion all the while that it
wasn't genius, but something far more common.  Whatever it was, it
simmered to some purpose, for he grew more and more discontented with
his desultory life, began to long for some real and earnest work to go
at, soul and body, and finally came to the wise conclusion that
everyone who loved music was not a composer.  Returning from one of
Mozart's grand operas, splendidly performed at the Royal Theatre, he
looked over his own, played a few of the best parts, sat staring at the
busts of Mendelssohn, Beethoven, and Bach, who stared benignly back
again.  Then suddenly he tore up his music sheets, one by one, and as
the last fluttered out of his hand, he said soberly to himself...

"She is right!  Talent isn't genius, and you can't make it so.  That
music has taken the vanity out of me as Rome took it out of her, and I
won't be a humbug any longer.  Now what shall I do?"

That seemed a hard question to answer, and Laurie began to wish he had
to work for his daily bread.  Now if ever, occurred an eligible
opportunity for 'going to the devil', as he once forcibly expressed it,
for he had plenty of money and nothing to do, and Satan is proverbially
fond of providing employment for full and idle hands.  The poor fellow
had temptations enough from without and from within, but he withstood
them pretty well, for much as he valued liberty, he valued good faith
and confidence more, so his promise to his grandfather, and his desire
to be able to look honestly into the eyes of the women who loved him,
and say "All's well," kept him safe and steady.

Very likely some Mrs. Grundy will observe, "I don't believe it, boys
will be boys, young men must sow their wild oats, and women must not
expect miracles."  I dare say you don't, Mrs. Grundy, but it's true
nevertheless.  Women work a good many miracles, and I have a persuasion
that they may perform even that of raising the standard of manhood by
refusing to echo such sayings.  Let the boys be boys, the longer the
better, and let the young men sow their wild oats if they must.  But
mothers, sisters, and friends may help to make the crop a small one,
and keep many tares from spoiling the harvest, by believing, and
showing that they believe, in the possibility of loyalty to the virtues
which make men manliest in good women's eyes.  If it is a feminine
delusion, leave us to enjoy it while we may, for without it half the
beauty and the romance of life is lost, and sorrowful forebodings would
embitter all our hopes of the brave, tenderhearted little lads, who
still love their mothers better than themselves and are not ashamed to
own it.

Laurie thought that the task of forgetting his love for Jo would absorb
all his powers for years, but to his great surprise he discovered it
grew easier every day.  He refused to believe it at first, got angry
with himself, and couldn't understand it, but these hearts of ours are
curious and contrary things, and time and nature work their will in
spite of us.  Laurie's heart wouldn't ache.  The wound persisted in
healing with a rapidity that astonished him, and instead of trying to
forget, he found himself trying to remember.  He had not foreseen this
turn of affairs, and was not prepared for it.  He was disgusted with
himself, surprised at his own fickleness, and full of a queer mixture
of disappointment and relief that he could recover from such a
tremendous blow so soon.  He carefully stirred up the embers of his
lost love, but they refused to burst into a blaze.  There was only a
comfortable glow that warmed and did him good without putting him into
a fever, and he was reluctantly obliged to confess that the boyish
passion was slowly subsiding into a more tranquil sentiment, very
tender, a little sad and resentful still, but that was sure to pass
away in time, leaving a brotherly affection which would last unbroken
to the end.

As the word 'brotherly' passed through his mind in one of his reveries,
he smiled, and glanced up at the picture of Mozart that was before
him...

"Well, he was a great man, and when he couldn't have one sister he took
the other, and was happy."

Laurie did not utter the words, but he thought them, and the next
instant kissed the little old ring, saying to himself, "No, I won't!  I
haven't forgotten, I never can.  I'll try again, and if that fails, why
then..."

Leaving his sentence unfinished, he seized pen and paper and wrote to
Jo, telling her that he could not settle to anything while there was
the least hope of her changing her mind. Couldn't she, wouldn't
she--and let him come home and be happy? While waiting for an answer he
did nothing, but he did it energetically, for he was in a fever of
impatience.  It came at last, and settled his mind effectually on one
point, for Jo decidedly couldn't and wouldn't.  She was wrapped up in
Beth, and never wished to hear the word love again.  Then she begged
him to be happy with somebody else, but always keep a little corner of
his heart for his loving sister Jo.  In a postscript she desired him
not to tell Amy that Beth was worse, she was coming home in the spring
and there was no need of saddening the remainder of her stay.  That
would be time enough, please God, but Laurie must write to her often,
and not let her feel lonely, homesick or anxious.

"So I will, at once.  Poor little girl, it will be a sad going home for
her, I'm afraid," and Laurie opened his desk, as if writing to Amy had
been the proper conclusion of the sentence left unfinished some weeks
before.

But he did not write the letter that day, for as he rummaged out his
best paper, he came across something which changed his purpose.
Tumbling about in one part of the desk among bills, passports, and
business documents of various kinds were several of Jo's letters, and
in another compartment were three notes from Amy, carefully tied up
with one of her blue ribbons and sweetly suggestive of the little dead
roses put away inside.  With a half-repentant, half-amused expression,
Laurie gathered up all Jo's letters, smoothed, folded, and put them
neatly into a small drawer of the desk, stood a minute turning the ring
thoughtfully on his finger, then slowly drew it off, laid it with the
letters, locked the drawer, and went out to hear High Mass at Saint
Stefan's, feeling as if there had been a funeral, and though not
overwhelmed with affliction, this seemed a more proper way to spend the
rest of the day than in writing letters to charming young ladies.

The letter went very soon, however, and was promptly answered, for Amy
was homesick, and confessed it in the most delightfully confiding
manner.  The correspondence flourished famously, and letters flew to
and fro with unfailing regularity all through the early spring.  Laurie
sold his busts, made allumettes of his opera, and went back to Paris,
hoping somebody would arrive before long.  He wanted desperately to go
to Nice, but would not till he was asked, and Amy would not ask him,
for just then she was having little experiences of her own, which made
her rather wish to avoid the quizzical eyes of 'our boy'.

Fred Vaughn had returned, and put the question to which she had once
decided to answer, "Yes, thank you," but now she said, "No, thank you,"
kindly but steadily, for when the time came, her courage failed her,
and she found that something more than money and position was needed to
satisfy the new longing that filled her heart so full of tender hopes
and fears.  The words, "Fred is a good fellow, but not at all the man I
fancied you would ever like," and Laurie's face when he uttered them,
kept returning to her as pertinaciously as her own did when she said in
look, if not in words, "I shall marry for money."  It troubled her to
remember that now, she wished she could take it back, it sounded so
unwomanly. She didn't want Laurie to think her a heartless,  worldly
creature.  She didn't care to be a queen of society now half so much as
she did to be a lovable woman.  She was so glad he didn't hate her for
the dreadful things she said, but took them so beautifully and was
kinder than ever.  His letters were such a comfort, for the home
letters were very irregular and not half so satisfactory as his when
they did come.  It was not only a pleasure, but a duty to answer them,
for the poor fellow was forlorn, and needed petting, since Jo persisted
in being stonyhearted.  She ought to have made an effort and tried to
love him.  It couldn't be very hard, many people would be proud and
glad to have such a dear boy care for them.  But Jo never would act
like other girls, so there was nothing to do but be very kind and treat
him like a brother.

If all brothers were treated as well as Laurie was at this period, they
would be a much happier race of beings than they are.  Amy never
lectured now.  She asked his opinion on all subjects, she was
interested in everything he did, made charming little presents for him,
and sent him two letters a week, full of lively gossip, sisterly
confidences, and captivating sketches of the lovely scenes about her.
As few brothers are complimented by having their letters carried about
in their sister's pockets, read and reread diligently, cried over when
short, kissed when long, and treasured carefully, we will not hint that
Amy did any of these fond and foolish things.  But she certainly did
grow a little pale and pensive that spring, lost much of her relish for
society, and went out sketching alone a good deal.  She never had much
to show when she came home, but was studying nature, I dare say, while
she sat for hours, with her hands folded, on the terrace at Valrosa, or
absently sketched any fancy that occurred to her, a stalwart knight
carved on a tomb, a young man asleep in the grass, with his hat over
his eyes, or a curly haired girl in gorgeous array, promenading down a
ballroom on the arm of a tall gentleman, both faces being left a blur
according to the last fashion in art, which was safe but not altogether
satisfactory.

Her aunt thought that she regretted her answer to Fred, and finding
denials useless and explanations impossible, Amy left her to think what
she liked, taking care that Laurie should know that Fred had gone to
Egypt.  That was all, but he understood it, and looked relieved, as he
said to himself, with a venerable air...

"I was sure she would think better of it.  Poor old fellow! I've been
through it all, and I can sympathize."

With that he heaved a great sigh, and then, as if he had discharged his
duty to the past, put his feet up on the sofa and enjoyed Amy's letter
luxuriously.

While these changes were going on abroad, trouble had come at home.
But the letter telling that Beth was failing never reached Amy, and
when the next found her at Vevay, for the heat had driven them from
Nice in May, and they had travelled slowly to Switzerland, by way of
Genoa and the Italian lakes.  She bore it very well, and quietly
submitted to the family decree that she should not shorten her visit,
for since it was too late to say goodbye to Beth, she had better stay,
and let absence soften her sorrow.  But her heart was very heavy, she
longed to be at home, and every day looked wistfully across the lake,
waiting for Laurie to come and comfort her.

He did come very soon, for the same mail brought letters to them both,
but he was in Germany, and it took some days to reach him.  The moment
he read it, he packed his knapsack, bade adieu to his fellow
pedestrians, and was off to keep his promise, with a heart full of joy
and sorrow, hope and suspense.

He knew Vevay well, and as soon as the boat touched the little quay, he
hurried along the shore to La Tour, where the Carrols were living en
pension.  The garcon was in despair that the whole family had gone to
take a promenade on the lake, but no, the blonde mademoiselle might be
in the chateau garden.  If monsieur would give himself the pain of
sitting down, a flash of time should present her.  But monsieur could
not wait even a 'flash of time', and in the middle of the speech
departed to find mademoiselle himself.

A pleasant old garden on the borders of the lovely lake, with chestnuts
rustling overhead, ivy climbing everywhere, and the black shadow of the
tower falling far across the sunny water.  At one corner of the wide,
low wall was a seat, and here Amy often came to read or work, or
console herself with the beauty all about her.  She was sitting here
that day, leaning her head on her hand, with a homesick heart and heavy
eyes, thinking of Beth and wondering why Laurie did not come.  She did
not hear him cross the courtyard beyond, nor see him pause in the
archway that led from the subterranean path into the garden.  He stood
a minute looking at her with new eyes, seeing what no one had ever seen
before, the tender side of Amy's character. Everything about her mutely
suggested love and sorrow, the blotted letters in her lap, the black
ribbon that tied up her hair, the womanly pain and patience in her
face, even the little ebony cross at her throat seemed pathetic to
Laurie, for he had given it to her, and she wore it as her only
ornament. If he had any doubts about the reception she would give him,
they were set at rest the minute she looked up and saw him, for
dropping everything, she ran to him, exclaiming in a tone of
unmistakable love and longing...

"Oh, Laurie, Laurie, I knew you'd come to me!"

I think everything was said and settled then, for as they stood
together quite silent for a moment, with the dark head bent down
protectingly over the light one, Amy felt that no one could comfort and
sustain her so well as Laurie, and Laurie decided that Amy was the only
woman in the world who could fill Jo's place and make him happy.  He
did not tell her so, but she was not disappointed, for both felt the
truth, were satisfied, and gladly left the rest to silence.

In a minute Amy went back to her place, and while she dried her tears,
Laurie gathered up the scattered papers, finding in the sight of sundry
well-worn letters and suggestive sketches good omens for the future.
As he sat down beside her, Amy felt shy again, and turned rosy red at
the recollection of her impulsive greeting.

"I couldn't help it, I felt so lonely and sad, and was so very glad to
see you.  It was such a surprise to look up and find you, just as I was
beginning to fear you wouldn't come," she said, trying in vain to speak
quite naturally.

"I came the minute I heard.  I wish I could say something to comfort
you for the loss of dear little Beth, but I can only feel, and..."  He
could not get any further, for he too turned bashful all of a sudden,
and did not quite know what to say.  He longed to lay Amy's head down
on his shoulder, and tell her to have a good cry, but he did not dare,
so took her hand instead, and gave it a sympathetic squeeze that was
better than words.

"You needn't say anything, this comforts me," she said softly.  "Beth
is well and happy, and I mustn't wish her back, but I dread the going
home, much as I long to see them all. We won't talk about it now, for
it makes me cry, and I want to enjoy you while you stay.  You needn't
go right back, need you?"

"Not if you want me, dear."

"I do, so much.  Aunt and Flo are very kind, but you seem like one of
the family, and it would be so comfortable to have you for a little
while."

Amy spoke and looked so like a homesick child whose heart was full that
Laurie forgot his bashfulness all at once, and gave her just what she
wanted--the petting she was used to and the cheerful conversation she
needed.

"Poor little soul, you look as if you'd grieved yourself half sick!
I'm going to take care of you, so don't cry any more, but come and walk
about with me, the wind is too chilly for you to sit still," he said,
in the half-caressing, half-commanding way that Amy liked, as he tied
on her hat, drew her arm through his, and began to pace up and down the
sunny walk under the new-leaved chestnuts.  He felt more at ease upon
his legs, and Amy found it pleasant to have a strong arm to lean upon,
a familiar face to smile at her, and a kind voice to talk delightfully
for her alone.

The quaint old garden had sheltered many pairs of lovers, and seemed
expressly made for them, so sunny and secluded was it, with nothing but
the tower to overlook them, and the wide lake to carry away the echo of
their words, as it rippled by below.  For an hour this new pair walked
and talked, or rested on the wall, enjoying the sweet influences which
gave such a charm to time and place, and when an unromantic dinner bell
warned them away, Amy felt as if she left her burden of loneliness and
sorrow behind her in the chateau garden.

The moment Mrs. Carrol saw the girl's altered face, she was illuminated
with a new idea, and exclaimed to herself, "Now I understand it
all--the child has been pining for young Laurence.  Bless my heart, I
never thought of such a thing!"

With praiseworthy discretion, the good lady said nothing, and betrayed
no sign of enlightenment, but cordially urged Laurie to stay and begged
Amy to enjoy his society, for it would do her more good than so much
solitude.  Amy was a model of docility, and as her aunt was a good deal
occupied with Flo, she was left to entertain her friend, and did it
with more than her usual success.

At Nice, Laurie had lounged and Amy had scolded.  At Vevay, Laurie was
never idle, but always walking, riding, boating, or studying in the
most energetic manner, while Amy admired everything he did and followed
his example as far and as fast as she could.  He said the change was
owing to the climate, and she did not contradict him, being glad of a
like excuse for her own recovered health and spirits.

The invigorating air did them both good, and much exercise worked
wholesome changes in minds as well as bodies. They seemed to get
clearer views of life and duty up there among the everlasting hills.
The fresh winds blew away desponding doubts, delusive fancies, and
moody mists.  The warm spring sunshine brought out all sorts of
aspiring ideas, tender hopes, and happy thoughts.  The lake seemed to
wash away the troubles of the past, and the grand old mountains to look
benignly down upon them saying, "Little children, love one another."

In spite of the new sorrow, it was a very happy time, so happy that
Laurie could not bear to disturb it by a word.  It took him a little
while to recover from his surprise at the cure of his first, and as he
had firmly believed, his last and only love.  He consoled himself for
the seeming disloyalty by the thought that Jo's sister was almost the
same as Jo's self, and the conviction that it would have been
impossible to love any other woman but Amy so soon and so well.  His
first wooing had been of the tempestuous order, and he looked back upon
it as if through a long vista of years with a feeling of compassion
blended with regret.  He was not ashamed of it, but put it away as one
of the bitter-sweet experiences of his life, for which he could be
grateful when the pain was over. His second wooing, he resolved, should
be as calm and simple as possible.  There was no need of having a
scene, hardly any need of telling Amy that he loved her, she knew it
without words and had given him his answer long ago.  It all came about
so naturally that no one could complain, and he knew that everybody
would be pleased, even Jo.  But when our first little passion has been
crushed, we are apt to be wary and slow in making a second trial, so
Laurie let the days pass, enjoying every hour, and leaving to chance
the utterance of the word that would put an end to the first and
sweetest part of his new romance.

He had rather imagined that the denoument would take place in the
chateau garden by moonlight, and in the most graceful and decorous
manner, but it turned out exactly the reverse, for the matter was
settled on the lake at noonday in a few blunt words. They had been
floating about all the morning, from gloomy St.  Gingolf to sunny
Montreux, with the Alps of Savoy on one side, Mont St.  Bernard and the
Dent du Midi on the other, pretty Vevay in the valley, and Lausanne
upon the hill beyond, a cloudless blue sky overhead, and the bluer lake
below, dotted with the picturesque boats that look like white-winged
gulls.

They had been talking of Bonnivard, as they glided past Chillon, and of
Rousseau, as they looked up at Clarens, where he wrote his Heloise.
Neither had read it, but they knew it was a love story, and each
privately wondered if it was half as interesting as their own.  Amy had
been dabbling her hand in the water during the little pause that fell
between them, and when she looked up, Laurie was leaning on his oars
with an expression in his eyes that made her say hastily, merely for
the sake of saying something...

"You must be tired.  Rest a little, and let me row.  It will do me
good, for since you came I have been altogether lazy and luxurious."

"I'm not tired, but you may take an oar, if you like.  There's room
enough, though I have to sit nearly in the middle, else the boat won't
trim," returned Laurie, as if he rather liked the arrangement.

Feeling that she had not mended matters much, Amy took the offered
third of a seat, shook her hair over her face, and accepted an oar.
She rowed as well as she did many other things, and though she used
both hands, and Laurie but one, the oars kept time, and the boat went
smoothly through the water.

"How well we pull together, don't we?" said Amy, who objected to
silence just then.

"So well that I wish we might always pull in the same boat. Will you,
Amy?" very tenderly.

"Yes, Laurie," very low.

Then they both stopped rowing, and unconsciously added a pretty little
tableau of human love and happiness to the dissolving views reflected
in the lake.

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

completion: Learning to Forget Laurie is more active when he returns to Switzerland. He spends some time in Austria working on a requiem and an opera. He tries to make Jo his heroine, but she seems ill fit to be his artistic muse, or inspiration, so he begins to imagine a blonde damsel, although he does not name her. Laurie also begins to correspond with Amy frequently. When Fred Vaughn finally proposes, Amy turns him down because she does not want to marry for money. Amy and Laurie find out about Beth's death at nearly the same time, and Laurie goes to comfort Amy. They begin to spend much time together and fall in love. One day, Laurie and Amy are boating on a river. Laurie is doing the rowing, and Amy asks to help, telling him that he looks tired. They begin to row smoothly together, and Laurie asks Amy if she will always row in the same boat as him--that is, if she will marry him. Amy responds that she will