prompt:
Chapter: XIX. AMY'S WILL.

While these things were happening at home, Amy was having hard times at
Aunt March's. She felt her exile deeply, and, for the first time in her
life, realized how much she was beloved and petted at home. Aunt March
never petted any one; she did not approve of it; but she meant to be
kind, for the well-behaved little girl pleased her very much, and Aunt
March had a soft place in her old heart for her nephew's children,
though she didn't think proper to confess it. She really did her best to
make Amy happy, but, dear me, what mistakes she made! Some old people
keep young at heart in spite of wrinkles and gray hairs, can sympathize
with children's little cares and joys, make them feel at home, and can
hide wise lessons under pleasant plays, giving and receiving friendship
in the sweetest way. But Aunt March had not this gift, and she worried
Amy very much with her rules and orders, her prim ways, and long, prosy
talks. Finding the child more docile and amiable than her sister, the
old lady felt it her duty to try and counteract, as far as possible, the
bad effects of home freedom and indulgence. So she took Amy in hand, and
taught her as she herself had been taught sixty years ago,--a process
which carried dismay to Amy's soul, and made her feel like a fly in the
web of a very strict spider.

     [Illustration: Polish up the spoons and the fat silver teapot]

She had to wash the cups every morning, and polish up the old-fashioned
spoons, the fat silver teapot, and the glasses, till they shone. Then
she must dust the room, and what a trying job that was! Not a speck
escaped Aunt March's eye, and all the furniture had claw legs, and much
carving, which was never dusted to suit. Then Polly must be fed, the
lap-dog combed, and a dozen trips upstairs and down, to get things, or
deliver orders, for the old lady was very lame, and seldom left her big
chair. After these tiresome labors, she must do her lessons, which was a
daily trial of every virtue she possessed. Then she was allowed one hour
for exercise or play, and didn't she enjoy it? Laurie came every day,
and wheedled Aunt March, till Amy was allowed to go out with him, when
they walked and rode, and had capital times. After dinner, she had to
read aloud, and sit still while the old lady slept, which she usually
did for an hour, as she dropped off over the first page. Then patchwork
or towels appeared, and Amy sewed with outward meekness and inward
rebellion till dusk, when she was allowed to amuse herself as she liked
till tea-time. The evenings were the worst of all, for Aunt March fell
to telling long stories about her youth, which were so unutterably dull
that Amy was always ready to go to bed, intending to cry over her hard
fate, but usually going to sleep before she had squeezed out more than a
tear or two.

If it had not been for Laurie, and old Esther, the maid, she felt that
she never could have got through that dreadful time. The parrot alone
was enough to drive her distracted, for he soon felt that she did not
admire him, and revenged himself by being as mischievous as possible. He
pulled her hair whenever she came near him, upset his bread and milk to
plague her when she had newly cleaned his cage, made Mop bark by pecking
at him while Madam dozed; called her names before company, and behaved
in all respects like a reprehensible old bird. Then she could not endure
the dog,--a fat, cross beast, who snarled and yelped at her when she
made his toilet, and who lay on his back, with all his legs in the air
and a most idiotic expression of countenance when he wanted something to
eat, which was about a dozen times a day. The cook was bad-tempered, the
old coachman deaf, and Esther the only one who ever took any notice of
the young lady.

       [Illustration: On his back, with all his legs in the air]

Esther was a Frenchwoman, who had lived with "Madame," as she called her
mistress, for many years, and who rather tyrannized over the old lady,
who could not get along without her. Her real name was Estelle, but
Aunt March ordered her to change it, and she obeyed, on condition that
she was never asked to change her religion. She took a fancy to
Mademoiselle, and amused her very much, with odd stories of her life in
France, when Amy sat with her while she got up Madame's laces. She also
allowed her to roam about the great house, and examine the curious and
pretty things stored away in the big wardrobes and the ancient chests;
for Aunt March hoarded like a magpie. Amy's chief delight was an Indian
cabinet, full of queer drawers, little pigeon-holes, and secret places,
in which were kept all sorts of ornaments, some precious, some merely
curious, all more or less antique. To examine and arrange these things
gave Amy great satisfaction, especially the jewel-cases, in which, on
velvet cushions, reposed the ornaments which had adorned a belle forty
years ago. There was the garnet set which Aunt March wore when she came
out, the pearls her father gave her on her wedding-day, her lover's
diamonds, the jet mourning rings and pins, the queer lockets, with
portraits of dead friends, and weeping willows made of hair inside; the
baby bracelets her one little daughter had worn; Uncle March's big
watch, with the red seal so many childish hands had played with, and in
a box, all by itself, lay Aunt March's wedding-ring, too small now for
her fat finger, but put carefully away, like the most precious jewel of
them all.

                  [Illustration: I should choose this]

"Which would Mademoiselle choose if she had her will?" asked Esther, who
always sat near to watch over and lock up the valuables.

"I like the diamonds best, but there is no necklace among them, and I'm
fond of necklaces, they are so becoming. I should choose this if I
might," replied Amy, looking with great admiration at a string of gold
and ebony beads, from which hung a heavy cross of the same.

"I, too, covet that, but not as a necklace; ah, no! to me it is a
rosary, and as such I should use it like a good Catholic," said Esther,
eying the handsome thing wistfully.

"Is it meant to use as you use the string of good-smelling wooden beads
hanging over your glass?" asked Amy.

"Truly, yes, to pray with. It would be pleasing to the saints if one
used so fine a rosary as this, instead of wearing it as a vain bijou."

"You seem to take a great deal of comfort in your prayers, Esther, and
always come down looking quiet and satisfied. I wish I could."

"If Mademoiselle was a Catholic, she would find true comfort; but, as
that is not to be, it would be well if you went apart each day, to
meditate and pray, as did the good mistress whom I served before Madame.
She had a little chapel, and in it found solacement for much trouble."

"Would it be right for me to do so too?" asked Amy, who, in her
loneliness, felt the need of help of some sort, and found that she was
apt to forget her little book, now that Beth was not there to remind her
of it.

"It would be excellent and charming; and I shall gladly arrange the
little dressing-room for you if you like it. Say nothing to Madame, but
when she sleeps go you and sit alone a while to think good thoughts, and
pray the dear God to preserve your sister."

Esther was truly pious, and quite sincere in her advice; for she had an
affectionate heart, and felt much for the sisters in their anxiety. Amy
liked the idea, and gave her leave to arrange the light closet next her
room, hoping it would do her good.

"I wish I knew where all these pretty things would go when Aunt March
dies," she said, as she slowly replaced the shining rosary, and shut the
jewel-cases one by one.

"To you and your sisters. I know it; Madame confides in me; I witnessed
her will, and it is to be so," whispered Esther, smiling.

"How nice! but I wish she'd let us have them now. Pro-cras-ti-nation is
not agreeable," observed Amy, taking a last look at the diamonds.

"It is too soon yet for the young ladies to wear these things. The first
one who is affianced will have the pearls--Madame has said it; and I
have a fancy that the little turquoise ring will be given to you when
you go, for Madame approves your good behavior and charming manners."

"Do you think so? Oh, I'll be a lamb, if I can only have that lovely
ring! It's ever so much prettier than Kitty Bryant's. I do like Aunt
March, after all;" and Amy tried on the blue ring with a delighted face,
and a firm resolve to earn it.

From that day she was a model of obedience, and the old lady
complacently admired the success of her training. Esther fitted up the
closet with a little table, placed a footstool before it, and over it a
picture taken from one of the shut-up rooms. She thought it was of no
great value, but, being appropriate, she borrowed it, well knowing that
Madame would never know it, nor care if she did. It was, however, a very
valuable copy of one of the famous pictures of the world, and Amy's
beauty-loving eyes were never tired of looking up at the sweet face of
the divine mother, while tender thoughts of her own were busy at her
heart. On the table she laid her little Testament and hymn-book, kept a
vase always full of the best flowers Laurie brought her, and came every
day to "sit alone, thinking good thoughts, and praying the dear God to
preserve her sister." Esther had given her a rosary of black beads, with
a silver cross, but Amy hung it up and did not use it, feeling doubtful
as to its fitness for Protestant prayers.

The little girl was very sincere in all this, for, being left alone
outside the safe home-nest, she felt the need of some kind hand to hold
by so sorely, that she instinctively turned to the strong and tender
Friend, whose fatherly love most closely surrounds his little children.
She missed her mother's help to understand and rule herself, but having
been taught where to look, she did her best to find the way, and walk in
it confidingly. But Amy was a young pilgrim, and just now her burden
seemed very heavy. She tried to forget herself, to keep cheerful, and be
satisfied with doing right, though no one saw or praised her for it. In
her first effort at being very, very good, she decided to make her will,
as Aunt March had done; so that if she _did_ fall ill and die, her
possessions might be justly and generously divided. It cost her a pang
even to think of giving up the little treasures which in her eyes were
as precious as the old lady's jewels.

During one of her play-hours she wrote out the important document as
well as she could, with some help from Esther as to certain legal terms,
and, when the good-natured Frenchwoman had signed her name, Amy felt
relieved, and laid it by to show Laurie, whom she wanted as a second
witness. As it was a rainy day, she went upstairs to amuse herself in
one of the large chambers, and took Polly with her for company. In this
room there was a wardrobe full of old-fashioned costumes, with which
Esther allowed her to play, and it was her favorite amusement to array
herself in the faded brocades, and parade up and down before the long
mirror, making stately courtesies, and sweeping her train about, with a
rustle which delighted her ears. So busy was she on this day that she
did not hear Laurie's ring, nor see his face peeping in at her, as she
gravely promenaded to and fro, flirting her fan and tossing her head, on
which she wore a great pink turban, contrasting oddly with her blue
brocade dress and yellow quilted petticoat. She was obliged to walk
carefully, for she had on high-heeled shoes, and, as Laurie told Jo
afterward, it was a comical sight to see her mince along in her gay
suit, with Polly sidling and bridling just behind her, imitating her as
well as he could, and occasionally stopping to laugh or exclaim, "Ain't
we fine? Get along, you fright! Hold your tongue! Kiss me, dear! Ha!
ha!"

             [Illustration: Gravely promenaded to and fro]

Having with difficulty restrained an explosion of merriment, lest it
should offend her majesty, Laurie tapped, and was graciously received.

"Sit down and rest while I put these things away; then I want to consult
you about a very serious matter," said Amy, when she had shown her
splendor, and driven Polly into a corner. "That bird is the trial of my
life," she continued, removing the pink mountain from her head, while
Laurie seated himself astride of a chair. "Yesterday, when aunt was
asleep, and I was trying to be as still as a mouse, Polly began to
squall and flap about in his cage; so I went to let him out, and found a
big spider there. I poked it out, and it ran under the bookcase; Polly
marched straight after it, stooped down and peeped under the bookcase,
saying, in his funny way, with a cock of his eye, 'Come out and take a
walk, my dear.' I _couldn't_ help laughing, which made Poll swear, and
aunt woke up and scolded us both."

"Did the spider accept the old fellow's invitation?" asked Laurie,
yawning.

"Yes; out it came, and away ran Polly, frightened to death, and
scrambled up on aunt's chair, calling out, 'Catch her! catch her! catch
her!' as I chased the spider.

"That's a lie! Oh lor!" cried the parrot, pecking at Laurie's toes.

"I'd wring your neck if you were mine, you old torment," cried Laurie,
shaking his fist at the bird, who put his head on one side, and gravely
croaked, "Allyluyer! bless your buttons, dear!"

"Now I'm ready," said Amy, shutting the wardrobe, and taking a paper out
of her pocket. "I want you to read that, please, and tell me if it is
legal and right. I felt that I ought to do it, for life is uncertain and
I don't want any ill-feeling over my tomb."

                       [Illustration: Amy's Will]

Laurie bit his lips, and turning a little from the pensive speaker, read
the following document, with praiseworthy gravity, considering the
spelling:--

    "MY LAST WILL AND TESTIMENT.

    "I, Amy Curtis March, being in my sane mind, do give and
    bequeethe all my earthly property--viz. to wit:--namely

    "To my father, my best pictures, sketches, maps, and works of
    art, including frames. Also my $100, to do what he likes with.

    "To my mother, all my clothes, except the blue apron with
    pockets,--also my likeness, and my medal, with much love.

    "To my dear sister Margaret, I give my turkquoise ring (if I get
    it), also my green box with the doves on it, also my piece of
    real lace for her neck, and my sketch of her as a memorial of
    her 'little girl.'

    "To Jo I leave my breast-pin, the one mended with sealing wax,
    also my bronze inkstand--she lost the cover--and my most
    precious plaster rabbit, because I am sorry I burnt up her
    story.

    "To Beth (if she lives after me) I give my dolls and the little
    bureau, my fan, my linen collars and my new slippers if she can
    wear them being thin when she gets well. And I herewith also
    leave her my regret that I ever made fun of old Joanna.

    "To my friend and neighbor Theodore Laurence I bequeethe my
    paper marshay portfolio, my clay model of a horse though he did
    say it hadn't any neck. Also in return for his great kindness in
    the hour of affliction any one of my artistic works he likes,
    Noter Dame is the best.

    "To our venerable benefactor Mr. Laurence I leave my purple box
    with a looking glass in the cover which will be nice for his
    pens and remind him of the departed girl who thanks him for his
    favors to her family, specially Beth.

    "I wish my favorite playmate Kitty Bryant to have the blue silk
    apron and my gold-bead ring with a kiss.

    "To Hannah I give the bandbox she wanted and all the patch work
    I leave hoping she 'will remember me, when it you see.'

    "And now having disposed of my most valuable property I hope all
    will be satisfied and not blame the dead. I forgive every one,
    and trust we may all meet when the trump shall sound. Amen.

    "To this will and testiment I set my hand and seal on this 20th
    day of Nov. Anni Domino 1861.
                                                  "AMY CURTIS MARCH.

                  {ESTELLE VALNOR,
    "_Witnesses_: {
                  {THEODORE LAURENCE."

The last name was written in pencil, and Amy explained that he was to
rewrite it in ink, and seal it up for her properly.

"What put it into your head? Did any one tell you about Beth's giving
away her things?" asked Laurie soberly, as Amy laid a bit of red tape,
with sealing-wax, a taper, and a standish before him.

She explained; and then asked anxiously, "What about Beth?"

"I'm sorry I spoke; but as I did, I'll tell you. She felt so ill one day
that she told Jo she wanted to give her piano to Meg, her cats to you,
and the poor old doll to Jo, who would love it for her sake. She was
sorry she had so little to give, and left locks of hair to the rest of
us, and her best love to grandpa. _She_ never thought of a will."

Laurie was signing and sealing as he spoke, and did not look up till a
great tear dropped on the paper. Amy's face was full of trouble; but she
only said, "Don't people put sort of postscripts to their wills,
sometimes?"

"Yes; 'codicils,' they call them."

"Put one in mine then--that I wish _all_ my curls cut off, and given
round to my friends. I forgot it; but I want it done, though it will
spoil my looks."

Laurie added it, smiling at Amy's last and greatest sacrifice. Then he
amused her for an hour, and was much interested in all her trials. But
when he came to go, Amy held him back to whisper, with trembling lips,
"Is there really any danger about Beth?"

"I'm afraid there is; but we must hope for the best, so don't cry,
dear;" and Laurie put his arm about her with a brotherly gesture which
was very comforting.

When he had gone, she went to her little chapel, and, sitting in the
twilight, prayed for Beth, with streaming tears and an aching heart,
feeling that a million turquoise rings would not console her for the
loss of her gentle little sister.

                       [Illustration: Tail-piece]

         [Illustration: Mrs. March would not leave Beth's side]

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

completion: While her sisters are nursing Beth, Amy is suffering under the strict rules of Aunt March's house. Aunt March does love Amy, but she doesn't really show it. She tries to improve Amy's character by making her follow a harsh routine, including lots of housework, lessons, reading aloud to Aunt March, and listening to long lectures. Amy is sustained by her friendship with Laurie, who comes to visit her regularly, and the kindness of Aunt March's maid Esther. Even Aunt March's pets irritate Amy - the parrot pulls her hair and calls her names, and the little dog barks at her. Esther, the maid, is Amy's only friend in the house. Her real name is Estelle, and she is a French Catholic - Aunt March, like many nineteenth-century English and American employers, forces her foreign servants to adopt English names. Esther tells Amy stories about her homeland and shows Amy the jewelry and other treasures that Aunt March has gathered over the years. One day, Esther asks Amy which piece of Aunt March's jewelry she would choose, if she could have one. Amy chooses a string of gold and ebony beads, and Esther explains that it is actually a rosary - used by Catholics for saying prayers. Esther and Amy talk about the comfort of prayer. Esther offers to set up a little chapel for Amy in a spare room of Aunt March's mansion. Amy asks Esther who will get Aunt March's jewelry when she dies. Esther says that, in her will, Aunt March has left the jewelry to Amy and her sisters. Amy wishes she could have some of Aunt March's jewelry now. Esther shows her a turquoise ring and tells her that Aunt March is planning to give it to her when she goes back home as a reward for her good behavior. Amy tries harder to be good and obedient to Aunt March in order to earn the turquoise ring. Esther sets up a little chapel for Amy, using a portrait of Mary with the baby Jesus that was stored away in the house. Amy adds a vase of flowers, her copy of the New Testament, her hymnbook, and a rosary that Esther gave her. She doesn't use the rosary because she's Protestant, but she hangs it in the room. Amy tries to use her little chapel and her prayers to replace her mother's influence and advice. She becomes more religious and draws closer to God, even though she's just a little girl. Amy starts thinking about what will happen if she gets scarlet fever and dies. With Esther's help, she writes a will of her own. One day, as Amy is playing dress-up with some of Aunt March's clothes, Laurie comes in to see her. Amy puts the clothes away and tells Laurie about the will. She asks him to sign it as a witness. Laurie, doing his best not to laugh at Amy, reads her will. She has left some of her possessions to her father, mother, sisters, Laurie, Mr. Laurence, Hannah, and her friend Kitty Bryant. Laurie asks Amy what made her write the will, and tells her that Beth has given her possessions away already. As Laurie signs Amy's will as a witness, she adds an additional bequest - that her curls should be cut off and one given to each of her family and friends. Amy asks Laurie if Beth is really in danger of dying. Laurie says that she is and tries to comfort Amy. After Laurie leaves, Amy goes to her chapel and prays for Beth.


prompt:
Chapter: XX. CONFIDENTIAL

I don't think I have any words in which to tell the meeting of the
mother and daughters; such hours are beautiful to live, but very hard to
describe, so I will leave it to the imagination of my readers, merely
saying that the house was full of genuine happiness, and that Meg's
tender hope was realized; for when Beth woke from that long, healing
sleep, the first objects on which her eyes fell _were_ the little rose
and mother's face. Too weak to wonder at anything, she only smiled, and
nestled close into the loving arms about her, feeling that the hungry
longing was satisfied at last. Then she slept again, and the girls
waited upon their mother, for she would not unclasp the thin hand which
clung to hers even in sleep. Hannah had "dished up" an astonishing
breakfast for the traveller, finding it impossible to vent her
excitement in any other way; and Meg and Jo fed their mother like
dutiful young storks, while they listened to her whispered account of
father's state, Mr. Brooke's promise to stay and nurse him, the delays
which the storm occasioned on the homeward journey, and the unspeakable
comfort Laurie's hopeful face had given her when she arrived, worn out
with fatigue, anxiety, and cold.

What a strange, yet pleasant day that was! so brilliant and gay without,
for all the world seemed abroad to welcome the first snow; so quiet and
reposeful within, for every one slept, spent with watching, and a
Sabbath stillness reigned through the house, while nodding Hannah
mounted guard at the door. With a blissful sense of burdens lifted off,
Meg and Jo closed their weary eyes, and lay at rest, like storm-beaten
boats, safe at anchor in a quiet harbor. Mrs. March would not leave
Beth's side, but rested in the big chair, waking often to look at,
touch, and brood over her child, like a miser over some recovered
treasure.

Laurie, meanwhile, posted off to comfort Amy, and told his story so well
that Aunt March actually "sniffed" herself, and never once said, "I told
you so." Amy came out so strong on this occasion that I think the good
thoughts in the little chapel really began to bear fruit. She dried her
tears quickly, restrained her impatience to see her mother, and never
even thought of the turquoise ring, when the old lady heartily agreed in
Laurie's opinion, that she behaved "like a capital little woman." Even
Polly seemed impressed, for he called her "good girl," blessed her
buttons, and begged her to "come and take a walk, dear," in his most
affable tone. She would very gladly have gone out to enjoy the bright
wintry weather; but, discovering that Laurie was dropping with sleep in
spite of manful efforts to conceal the fact, she persuaded him to rest
on the sofa, while she wrote a note to her mother. She was a long time
about it; and, when she returned, he was stretched out, with both arms
under his head, sound asleep, while Aunt March had pulled down the
curtains, and sat doing nothing in an unusual fit of benignity.

After a while, they began to think he was not going to wake till night,
and I'm not sure that he would, had he not been effectually roused by
Amy's cry of joy at sight of her mother. There probably were a good
many happy little girls in and about the city that day, but it is my
private opinion that Amy was the happiest of all, when she sat in her
mother's lap and told her trials, receiving consolation and compensation
in the shape of approving smiles and fond caresses. They were alone
together in the chapel, to which her mother did not object when its
purpose was explained to her.

"On the contrary, I like it very much, dear," looking from the dusty
rosary to the well-worn little book, and the lovely picture with its
garland of evergreen. "It is an excellent plan to have some place where
we can go to be quiet, when things vex or grieve us. There are a good
many hard times in this life of ours, but we can always bear them if we
ask help in the right way. I think my little girl is learning this?"

"Yes, mother; and when I go home I mean to have a corner in the big
closet to put my books, and the copy of that picture which I've tried to
make. The woman's face is not good,--it's too beautiful for me to
draw,--but the baby is done better, and I love it very much. I like to
think He was a little child once, for then I don't seem so far away, and
that helps me."

As Amy pointed to the smiling Christ-child on his mother's knee, Mrs.
March saw something on the lifted hand that made her smile. She said
nothing, but Amy understood the look, and, after a minute's pause, she
added gravely,--

"I wanted to speak to you about this, but I forgot it. Aunt gave me the
ring to-day; she called me to her and kissed me, and put it on my
finger, and said I was a credit to her, and she'd like to keep me
always. She gave that funny guard to keep the turquoise on, as it's too
big. I'd like to wear them, mother; can I?"

"They are very pretty, but I think you're rather too young for such
ornaments, Amy," said Mrs. March, looking at the plump little hand, with
the band of sky-blue stones on the forefinger, and the quaint guard,
formed of two tiny, golden hands clasped together.

"I'll try not to be vain," said Amy. "I don't think I like it only
because it's so pretty; but I want to wear it as the girl in the story
wore her bracelet, to remind me of something."

"Do you mean Aunt March?" asked her mother, laughing.

"No, to remind me not to be selfish." Amy looked so earnest and sincere
about it, that her mother stopped laughing, and listened respectfully to
the little plan.

"I've thought a great deal lately about my 'bundle of naughties,' and
being selfish is the largest one in it; so I'm going to try hard to cure
it, if I can. Beth isn't selfish, and that's the reason every one loves
her and feels so bad at the thoughts of losing her. People wouldn't feel
half so bad about me if I was sick, and I don't deserve to have them;
but I'd like to be loved and missed by a great many friends, so I'm
going to try and be like Beth all I can. I'm apt to forget my
resolutions; but if I had something always about me to remind me, I
guess I should do better. May I try this way?"

"Yes; but I have more faith in the corner of the big closet. Wear your
ring, dear, and do your best; I think you will prosper, for the sincere
wish to be good is half the battle. Now I must go back to Beth. Keep up
your heart, little daughter, and we will soon have you home again."

That evening, while Meg was writing to her father, to report the
traveller's safe arrival, Jo slipped up stairs into Beth's room, and,
finding her mother in her usual place, stood a minute twisting her
fingers in her hair, with a worried gesture and an undecided look.

"What is it, deary?" asked Mrs. March, holding out her hand, with a face
which invited confidence.

"I want to tell you something, mother."

"About Meg?"

"How quickly you guessed! Yes, it's about her, and though it's a little
thing, it fidgets me."

"Beth is asleep; speak low, and tell me all about it. That Moffat hasn't
been here, I hope?" asked Mrs. March rather sharply.

"No, I should have shut the door in his face if he had," said Jo,
settling herself on the floor at her mother's feet. "Last summer Meg
left a pair of gloves over at the Laurences', and only one was returned.
We forgot all about it, till Teddy told me that Mr. Brooke had it. He
kept it in his waistcoat pocket, and once it fell out, and Teddy joked
him about it, and Mr. Brooke owned that he liked Meg, but didn't dare
say so, she was so young and he so poor. Now, isn't it a _dread_ful
state of things?"

"Do you think Meg cares for him?" asked Mrs. March, with an anxious
look.

"Mercy me! I don't know anything about love and such nonsense!" cried
Jo, with a funny mixture of interest and contempt. "In novels, the girls
show it by starting and blushing, fainting away, growing thin, and
acting like fools. Now Meg does not do anything of the sort: she eats
and drinks and sleeps, like a sensible creature: she looks straight in
my face when I talk about that man, and only blushes a little bit when
Teddy jokes about lovers. I forbid him to do it, but he doesn't mind me
as he ought."

"Then you fancy that Meg is _not_ interested in John?"

"Who?" cried Jo, staring.

"Mr. Brooke. I call him 'John' now; we fell into the way of doing so at
the hospital, and he likes it."

"Oh, dear! I know you'll take his part: he's been good to father, and
you won't send him away, but let Meg marry him, if she wants to. Mean
thing! to go petting papa and helping you, just to wheedle you into
liking him;" and Jo pulled her hair again with a wrathful tweak.

"My dear, don't get angry about it, and I will tell you how it happened.
John went with me at Mr. Laurence's request, and was so devoted to poor
father that we couldn't help getting fond of him. He was perfectly open
and honorable about Meg, for he told us he loved her, but would earn a
comfortable home before he asked her to marry him. He only wanted our
leave to love her and work for her, and the right to make her love him
if he could. He is a truly excellent young man, and we could not refuse
to listen to him; but I will not consent to Meg's engaging herself so
young."

"Of course not; it would be idiotic! I knew there was mischief brewing;
I felt it; and now it's worse than I imagined. I just wish I could marry
Meg myself, and keep her safe in the family."

This odd arrangement made Mrs. March smile; but she said gravely, "Jo, I
confide in you, and don't wish you to say anything to Meg yet. When John
comes back, and I see them together, I can judge better of her feelings
toward him."

"She'll see his in those handsome eyes that she talks about, and then
it will be all up with her. She's got such a soft heart, it will melt
like butter in the sun if any one looks sentimentally at her. She read
the short reports he sent more than she did your letters, and pinched me
when I spoke of it, and likes brown eyes, and doesn't think John an ugly
name, and she'll go and fall in love, and there's an end of peace and
fun, and cosy times together. I see it all! they'll go lovering around
the house, and we shall have to dodge; Meg will be absorbed, and no good
to me any more; Brooke will scratch up a fortune somehow, carry her off,
and make a hole in the family; and I shall break my heart, and
everything will be abominably uncomfortable. Oh, dear me! why weren't we
all boys, then there wouldn't be any bother."

Jo leaned her chin on her knees, in a disconsolate attitude, and shook
her fist at the reprehensible John. Mrs. March sighed, and Jo looked up
with an air of relief.

"You don't like it, mother? I'm glad of it. Let's send him about his
business, and not tell Meg a word of it, but all be happy together as we
always have been."

"I did wrong to sigh, Jo. It is natural and right you should all go to
homes of your own, in time; but I do want to keep my girls as long as I
can; and I am sorry that this happened so soon, for Meg is only
seventeen, and it will be some years before John can make a home for
her. Your father and I have agreed that she shall not bind herself in
any way, nor be married, before twenty. If she and John love one
another, they can wait, and test the love by doing so. She is
conscientious, and I have no fear of her treating him unkindly. My
pretty, tender-hearted girl! I hope things will go happily with her."

"Hadn't you rather have her marry a rich man?" asked Jo, as her mother's
voice faltered a little over the last words.

"Money is a good and useful thing, Jo; and I hope my girls will never
feel the need of it too bitterly, nor be tempted by too much. I should
like to know that John was firmly established in some good business,
which gave him an income large enough to keep free from debt and make
Meg comfortable. I'm not ambitious for a splendid fortune, a fashionable
position, or a great name for my girls. If rank and money come with
love and virtue, also, I should accept them gratefully, and enjoy your
good fortune; but I know, by experience, how much genuine happiness can
be had in a plain little house, where the daily bread is earned, and
some privations give sweetness to the few pleasures. I am content to see
Meg begin humbly, for, if I am not mistaken, she will be rich in the
possession of a good man's heart, and that is better than a fortune."

"I understand, mother, and quite agree; but I'm disappointed about Meg,
for I'd planned to have her marry Teddy by and by, and sit in the lap of
luxury all her days. Wouldn't it be nice?" asked Jo, looking up, with a
brighter face.

"He is younger than she, you know," began Mrs. March; but Jo broke in,--

"Only a little; he's old for his age, and tall; and can be quite
grown-up in his manners if he likes. Then he's rich and generous and
good, and loves us all; and _I_ say it's a pity my plan is spoilt."

"I'm afraid Laurie is hardly grown up enough for Meg, and altogether too
much of a weathercock, just now, for any one to depend on. Don't make
plans, Jo; but let time and their own hearts mate your friends. We can't
meddle safely in such matters, and had better not get 'romantic
rubbish,' as you call it, into our heads, lest it spoil our friendship."

"Well, I won't; but I hate to see things going all criss-cross and
getting snarled up, when a pull here and a snip there would straighten
it out. I wish wearing flat-irons on our heads would keep us from
growing up. But buds will be roses, and kittens, cats,--more's the
pity!"

"What's that about flat-irons and cats?" asked Meg, as she crept into
the room, with the finished letter in her hand.

"Only one of my stupid speeches. I'm going to bed; come, Peggy," said
Jo, unfolding herself, like an animated puzzle.

"Quite right, and beautifully written. Please add that I send my love to
John," said Mrs. March, as she glanced over the letter, and gave it
back.

"Do you call him 'John'?" asked Meg, smiling, with her innocent eyes
looking down into her mother's.

"Yes; he has been like a son to us, and we are very fond of him,"
replied Mrs. March, returning the look with a keen one.

"I'm glad of that, he is so lonely. Good-night, mother, dear. It is so
inexpressibly comfortable to have you here," was Meg's quiet answer.

The kiss her mother gave her was a very tender one; and, as she went
away, Mrs. March said, with a mixture of satisfaction and regret, "She
does not love John yet, but will soon learn to."

                       [Illustration: Tail-piece]

                        [Illustration: Letters]

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

completion: Meg, Jo, and Beth have an emotional reunion with their mother. Mrs. March stays with Beth, holding her hand, overnight. In the morning, Hannah serves a fancy breakfast to celebrate Mrs. March's return. As they eat, Mrs. March tells Jo and Meg about their father's improving health and Mr. Brooke's kindness. The day progresses. Jo and Meg feel much better now that their mother is in charge. Mrs. March stays at Beth's bedside throughout the day. Laurie goes to Aunt March's to tell Amy that her mother has returned. As he is describing Beth's illness and the other events of the last day, he falls asleep on Aunt March's couch. Laurie is woken by the arrival of Mrs. March, who comes to see Amy. Amy is overjoyed to be reunited with her mother. Amy shows her mother the chapel that Esther helped her make. Her mother approves of it. Amy also shows her mother the turquoise ring, which she is now wearing - Aunt March gave it to her just recently. Her mother objects and says that she is too young for such fancy jewelry, and Amy explains that she also values the ring because it reminds her not to be selfish. Mrs. March returns home to look after Beth. While she is at Beth's bedside, Jo comes and tell her that John Brooke has kept one of Beth's gloves as a memento. Jo is outraged by this and wants her mother to stop him. Mrs. March asks Jo if she thinks Meg cares for John Brooke. Jo says that she doesn't know and isn't any good with romantic issues. Mrs. March tells Jo that, while she was in Washington, John Brooke confessed to her and Mr. March that he loved Meg, and asked for their permission to court her. They agreed, because they were impressed with his hard-working demeanor and his good morals. Jo says that she wishes she could marry Meg herself and keep the family together. Mrs. March makes Jo promise that she won't talk about this to Meg. Jo thinks back on some of the things Meg has said and realizes that Meg does seem to be falling in love with John Brooke. Jo feels frustrated by this. Mrs. March sighs and admits that she will miss Meg after she gets married and leaves the family. She says that she and Mr. March have agreed that Meg shouldn't get married before she's 20. Jo asks her mother if Meg should try to marry a rich man instead of John Brooke. Her mother says that wealth is valuable, but not as valuable as good character and happiness. Jo suggests that Meg should marry Laurie. Her mother doesn't think they are suited for each other. Meg comes in and interrupts the discussion. Jo goes to bed. Meg shows her mother a letter that she has written to her father. Mrs. March asks her to add a p.s. sending her love to John. Meg is innocently surprised and pleased to discover that her mother and John Brooke are on first-name terms! Meg kisses her mother and goes to bed. Mrs. March thinks to herself that Meg will soon be in love with John Brooke.


prompt:
Chapter: XXI. LAURIE MAKES MISCHIEF, AND JO MAKES PEACE.

Jo's face was a study next day, for the secret rather weighed upon her,
and she found it hard not to look mysterious and important. Meg observed
it, but did not trouble herself to make inquiries, for she had learned
that the best way to manage Jo was by the law of contraries, so she felt
sure of being told everything if she did not ask. She was rather
surprised, therefore, when the silence remained unbroken, and Jo assumed
a patronizing air, which decidedly aggravated Meg, who in her turn
assumed an air of dignified reserve, and devoted herself to her mother.
This left Jo to her own devices; for Mrs. March had taken her place as
nurse, and bade her rest, exercise, and amuse herself after her long
confinement. Amy being gone, Laurie was her only refuge; and, much as
she enjoyed his society, she rather dreaded him just then, for he was an
incorrigible tease, and she feared he would coax her secret from her.

She was quite right, for the mischief-loving lad no sooner suspected a
mystery than he set himself to find it out, and led Jo a trying life of
it. He wheedled, bribed, ridiculed, threatened, and scolded; affected
indifference, that he might surprise the truth from her; declared he
knew, then that he didn't care; and, at last, by dint of perseverance,
he satisfied himself that it concerned Meg and Mr. Brooke. Feeling
indignant that he was not taken into his tutor's confidence, he set his
wits to work to devise some proper retaliation for the slight.

Meg meanwhile had apparently forgotten the matter, and was absorbed in
preparations for her father's return; but all of a sudden a change
seemed to come over her, and, for a day or two, she was quite unlike
herself. She started when spoken to, blushed when looked at, was very
quiet, and sat over her sewing, with a timid, troubled look on her face.
To her mother's inquiries she answered that she was quite well, and Jo's
she silenced by begging to be let alone.

"She feels it in the air--love, I mean--and she's going very fast. She's
got most of the symptoms,--is twittery and cross, doesn't eat, lies
awake, and mopes in corners. I caught her singing that song he gave her,
and once she said 'John,' as you do, and then turned as red as a poppy.
Whatever shall we do?" said Jo, looking ready for any measures, however
violent.

"Nothing but wait. Let her alone, be kind and patient, and father's
coming will settle everything," replied her mother.

"Here's a note to you, Meg, all sealed up. How odd! Teddy never seals
mine," said Jo, next day, as she distributed the contents of the little
post-office.

Mrs. March and Jo were deep in their own affairs, when a sound from Meg
made them look up to see her staring at her note, with a frightened
face.

"My child, what is it?" cried her mother, running to her, while Jo tried
to take the paper which had done the mischief.

"It's all a mistake--he didn't send it. O Jo, how could you do it?" and
Meg hid her face in her hands, crying as if her heart was quite broken.

"Me! I've done nothing! What's she talking about?" cried Jo, bewildered.

Meg's mild eyes kindled with anger as she pulled a crumpled note from
her pocket, and threw it at Jo, saying reproachfully,--

"You wrote it, and that bad boy helped you. How could you be so rude, so
mean, and cruel to us both?"

Jo hardly heard her, for she and her mother were reading the note, which
was written in a peculiar hand.

        [Illustration: Jo and her mother were reading the note]

    "MY DEAREST MARGARET,--

    "I can no longer restrain my passion, and must know my fate
    before I return. I dare not tell your parents yet, but I think
    they would consent if they knew that we adored one another. Mr.
    Laurence will help me to some good place, and then, my sweet
    girl, you will make me happy. I implore you to say nothing to
    your family yet, but to send one word of hope through Laurie to
                                            "Your devoted JOHN."

"Oh, the little villain! that's the way he meant to pay me for keeping
my word to mother. I'll give him a hearty scolding, and bring him over
to beg pardon," cried Jo, burning to execute immediate justice. But her
mother held her back, saying, with a look she seldom wore,--

"Stop, Jo, you must clear yourself first. You have played so many
pranks, that I am afraid you have had a hand in this."

"On my word, mother, I haven't! I never saw that note before, and don't
know anything about it, as true as I live!" said Jo, so earnestly that
they believed her. "If I _had_ taken a part in it I'd have done it
better than this, and have written a sensible note. I should think you'd
have known Mr. Brooke wouldn't write such stuff as that," she added,
scornfully tossing down the paper.

"It's like his writing," faltered Meg, comparing it with the note in her
hand.

"O Meg, you didn't answer it?" cried Mrs. March quickly.

"Yes, I did!" and Meg hid her face again, overcome with shame.

"Here's a scrape! _Do_ let me bring that wicked boy over to explain, and
be lectured. I can't rest till I get hold of him;" and Jo made for the
door again.

"Hush! let me manage this, for it is worse than I thought. Margaret,
tell me the whole story," commanded Mrs. March, sitting down by Meg, yet
keeping hold of Jo, lest she should fly off.

"I received the first letter from Laurie, who didn't look as if he knew
anything about it," began Meg, without looking up. "I was worried at
first, and meant to tell you; then I remembered how you liked Mr.
Brooke, so I thought you wouldn't mind if I kept my little secret for a
few days. I'm so silly that I liked to think no one knew; and, while I
was deciding what to say, I felt like the girls in books, who have such
things to do. Forgive me, mother, I'm paid for my silliness now; I never
can look him in the face again."

"What did you say to him?" asked Mrs. March.

"I only said I was too young to do anything about it yet; that I didn't
wish to have secrets from you, and he must speak to father. I was very
grateful for his kindness, and would be his friend, but nothing more,
for a long while."

Mrs. March smiled, as if well pleased, and Jo clapped her hands,
exclaiming, with a laugh,--

"You are almost equal to Caroline Percy, who was a pattern of prudence!
Tell on, Meg. What did he say to that?"

"He writes in a different way entirely, telling me that he never sent
any love-letter at all, and is very sorry that my roguish sister, Jo,
should take such liberties with our names. It's very kind and
respectful, but think how dreadful for me!"

Meg leaned against her mother, looking the image of despair, and Jo
tramped about the room, calling Laurie names. All of a sudden she
stopped, caught up the two notes, and, after looking at them closely,
said decidedly, "I don't believe Brooke ever saw either of these
letters. Teddy wrote both, and keeps yours to crow over me with, because
I wouldn't tell him my secret."

"Don't have any secrets, Jo; tell it to mother, and keep out of trouble,
as I should have done," said Meg warningly.

"Bless you, child! Mother told me."

"That will do, Jo. I'll comfort Meg while you go and get Laurie. I shall
sift the matter to the bottom, and put a stop to such pranks at once."

Away ran Jo, and Mrs. March gently told Meg Mr. Brooke's real feelings.
"Now, dear, what are your own? Do you love him enough to wait till he
can make a home for you, or will you keep yourself quite free for the
present?"

"I've been so scared and worried, I don't want to have anything to do
with lovers for a long while,--perhaps never," answered Meg petulantly.
"If John _doesn't_ know anything about this nonsense, don't tell him,
and make Jo and Laurie hold their tongues. I won't be deceived and
plagued and made a fool of,--it's a shame!"

Seeing that Meg's usually gentle temper was roused and her pride hurt by
this mischievous joke, Mrs. March soothed her by promises of entire
silence, and great discretion for the future. The instant Laurie's step
was heard in the hall, Meg fled into the study, and Mrs. March received
the culprit alone. Jo had not told him why he was wanted, fearing he
wouldn't come; but he knew the minute he saw Mrs. March's face, and
stood twirling his hat, with a guilty air which convicted him at once.
Jo was dismissed, but chose to march up and down the hall like a
sentinel, having some fear that the prisoner might bolt. The sound of
voices in the parlor rose and fell for half an hour; but what happened
during that interview the girls never knew.

When they were called in, Laurie was standing by their mother, with such
a penitent face that Jo forgave him on the spot, but did not think it
wise to betray the fact. Meg received his humble apology, and was much
comforted by the assurance that Brooke knew nothing of the joke.

"I'll never tell him to my dying day,--wild horses sha'n't drag it out
of me; so you'll forgive me, Meg, and I'll do anything to show how
out-and-out sorry I am," he added, looking very much ashamed of himself.

"I'll try; but it was a very ungentlemanly thing to do. I didn't think
you could be so sly and malicious, Laurie," replied Meg, trying to hide
her maidenly confusion under a gravely reproachful air.

"It was altogether abominable, and I don't deserve to be spoken to for a
month; but you will, though, won't you?" and Laurie folded his hands
together with such an imploring gesture, as he spoke in his irresistibly
persuasive tone, that it was impossible to frown upon him, in spite of
his scandalous behavior. Meg pardoned him, and Mrs. March's grave face
relaxed, in spite of her efforts to keep sober, when she heard him
declare that he would atone for his sins by all sorts of penances, and
abase himself like a worm before the injured damsel.

Jo stood aloof, meanwhile, trying to harden her heart against him, and
succeeding only in primming up her face into an expression of entire
disapprobation. Laurie looked at her once or twice, but, as she showed
no sign of relenting, he felt injured, and turned his back on her till
the others were done with him, when he made her a low bow, and walked
off without a word.

As soon as he had gone, she wished she had been more forgiving; and when
Meg and her mother went upstairs, she felt lonely, and longed for Teddy.
After resisting for some time, she yielded to the impulse, and, armed
with a book to return, went over to the big house.

"Is Mr. Laurence in?" asked Jo, of a housemaid, who was coming down
stairs.

"Yes, miss; but I don't believe he's seeable just yet."

"Why not? is he ill?"

"La, no, miss, but he's had a scene with Mr. Laurie, who is in one of
his tantrums about something, which vexes the old gentleman, so I
dursn't go nigh him."

"Where is Laurie?"

"Shut up in his room, and he won't answer, though I've been a-tapping. I
don't know what's to become of the dinner, for it's ready, and there's
no one to eat it."

"I'll go and see what the matter is. I'm not afraid of either of them."

Up went Jo, and knocked smartly on the door of Laurie's little study.

"Stop that, or I'll open the door and make you!" called out the young
gentleman, in a threatening tone.

Jo immediately knocked again; the door flew open, and in she bounced,
before Laurie could recover from his surprise. Seeing that he really
_was_ out of temper, Jo, who knew how to manage him, assumed a contrite
expression, and going artistically down upon her knees, said meekly,
"Please forgive me for being so cross. I came to make it up, and can't
go away till I have."

"It's all right. Get up, and don't be a goose, Jo," was the cavalier
reply to her petition.

              [Illustration: Get up and don't be a goose]

"Thank you; I will. Could I ask what's the matter? You don't look
exactly easy in your mind."

"I've been shaken, and I won't bear it!" growled Laurie indignantly.

"Who did it?" demanded Jo.

"Grandfather; if it had been any one else I'd have--" and the injured
youth finished his sentence by an energetic gesture of the right arm.

"That's nothing; I often shake you, and you don't mind," said Jo
soothingly.

"Pooh! you're a girl, and it's fun; but I'll allow no man to shake
_me_."

"I don't think any one would care to try it, if you looked as much like
a thunder-cloud as you do now. Why were you treated so?"

"Just because I wouldn't say what your mother wanted me for. I'd
promised not to tell, and of course I wasn't going to break my word."

"Couldn't you satisfy your grandpa in any other way?"

"No; he _would_ have the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the
truth. I'd have told my part of the scrape, if I could without bringing
Meg in. As I couldn't, I held my tongue, and bore the scolding till the
old gentleman collared me. Then I got angry, and bolted, for fear I
should forget myself."

"It wasn't nice, but he's sorry, I know; so go down and make up. I'll
help you."

"Hanged if I do! I'm not going to be lectured and pummelled by every
one, just for a bit of a frolic. I _was_ sorry about Meg, and begged
pardon like a man; but I won't do it again, when I wasn't in the wrong."

"He didn't know that."

"He ought to trust me, and not act as if I was a baby. It's no use, Jo;
he's got to learn that I'm able to take care of myself, and don't need
any one's apron-string to hold on by."

"What pepper-pots you are!" sighed Jo. "How do you mean to settle this
affair?"

"Well, he ought to beg pardon, and believe me when I say I can't tell
him what the fuss's about."

"Bless you! he won't do that."

"I won't go down till he does."

"Now, Teddy, be sensible; let it pass, and I'll explain what I can. You
can't stay here, so what's the use of being melodramatic?"

"I don't intend to stay here long, any way. I'll slip off and take a
journey somewhere, and when grandpa misses me he'll come round fast
enough."

"I dare say; but you ought not to go and worry him."

"Don't preach. I'll go to Washington and see Brooke; it's gay there, and
I'll enjoy myself after the troubles."

"What fun you'd have! I wish I could run off too," said Jo, forgetting
her part of Mentor in lively visions of martial life at the capital.

"Come on, then! Why not? You go and surprise your father, and I'll stir
up old Brooke. It would be a glorious joke; let's do it, Jo. We'll leave
a letter saying we are all right, and trot off at once. I've got money
enough; it will do you good, and be no harm, as you go to your father."

For a moment Jo looked as if she would agree; for, wild as the plan was,
it just suited her. She was tired of care and confinement, longed for
change, and thoughts of her father blended temptingly with the novel
charms of camps and hospitals, liberty and fun. Her eyes kindled as they
turned wistfully toward the window, but they fell on the old house
opposite, and she shook her head with sorrowful decision.

"If I was a boy, we'd run away together, and have a capital time; but as
I'm a miserable girl, I must be proper, and stop at home. Don't tempt
me, Teddy, it's a crazy plan."

"That's the fun of it," began Laurie, who had got a wilful fit on him,
and was possessed to break out of bounds in some way.

"Hold your tongue!" cried Jo, covering her ears. "'Prunes and prisms'
are my doom, and I may as well make up my mind to it. I came here to
moralize, not to hear about things that make me skip to think of."

    [Illustration: "Hold your tongue!" cried Jo, covering her ears]

"I know Meg would wet-blanket such a proposal, but I thought you had
more spirit," began Laurie insinuatingly.

"Bad boy, be quiet! Sit down and think of your own sins, don't go making
me add to mine. If I get your grandpa to apologize for the shaking, will
you give up running away?" asked Jo seriously.

"Yes, but you won't do it," answered Laurie, who wished "to make up,"
but felt that his outraged dignity must be appeased first.

"If I can manage the young one I can the old one," muttered Jo, as she
walked away, leaving Laurie bent over a railroad map, with his head
propped up on both hands.

"Come in!" and Mr. Laurence's gruff voice sounded gruffer than ever, as
Jo tapped at his door.

"It's only me, sir, come to return a book," she said blandly, as she
entered.

"Want any more?" asked the old gentleman, looking grim and vexed, but
trying not to show it.

"Yes, please. I like old Sam so well, I think I'll try the second
volume," returned Jo, hoping to propitiate him by accepting a second
dose of Boswell's "Johnson," as he had recommended that lively work.

The shaggy eyebrows unbent a little, as he rolled the steps toward the
shelf where the Johnsonian literature was placed. Jo skipped up, and,
sitting on the top step, affected to be searching for her book, but was
really wondering how best to introduce the dangerous object of her
visit. Mr. Laurence seemed to suspect that something was brewing in her
mind; for, after taking several brisk turns about the room, he faced
round on her, speaking so abruptly that "Rasselas" tumbled face downward
on the floor.

"What has that boy been about? Don't try to shield him. I know he has
been in mischief by the way he acted when he came home. I can't get a
word from him; and when I threatened to shake the truth out of him he
bolted upstairs, and locked himself into his room."

"He did do wrong, but we forgave him, and all promised not to say a word
to any one," began Jo reluctantly.

"That won't do; he shall not shelter himself behind a promise from you
soft-hearted girls. If he's done anything amiss, he shall confess, beg
pardon, and be punished. Out with it, Jo, I won't be kept in the dark."

Mr. Laurence looked so alarming and spoke so sharply that Jo would have
gladly run away, if she could, but she was perched aloft on the steps,
and he stood at the foot, a lion in the path, so she had to stay and
brave it out.

     [Illustration: He stood at the foot, like a lion in the path]

"Indeed, sir, I cannot tell; mother forbade it. Laurie has confessed,
asked pardon, and been punished quite enough. We don't keep silence to
shield him, but some one else, and it will make more trouble if you
interfere. Please don't; it was partly my fault, but it's all right now;
so let's forget it, and talk about the 'Rambler,' or something
pleasant."

"Hang the 'Rambler!' come down and give me your word that this
harum-scarum boy of mine hasn't done anything ungrateful or impertinent.
If he has, after all your kindness to him, I'll thrash him with my own
hands."

The threat sounded awful, but did not alarm Jo, for she knew the
irascible old gentleman would never lift a finger against his grandson,
whatever he might say to the contrary. She obediently descended, and
made as light of the prank as she could without betraying Meg or
forgetting the truth.

"Hum--ha--well, if the boy held his tongue because he promised, and not
from obstinacy, I'll forgive him. He's a stubborn fellow, and hard to
manage," said Mr. Laurence, rubbing up his hair till it looked as if he
had been out in a gale, and smoothing the frown from his brow with an
air of relief.

"So am I; but a kind word will govern me when all the king's horses and
all the king's men couldn't," said Jo, trying to say a kind word for her
friend, who seemed to get out of one scrape only to fall into another.

"You think I'm not kind to him, hey?" was the sharp answer.

"Oh, dear, no, sir; you are rather too kind sometimes, and then just a
trifle hasty when he tries your patience. Don't you think you are?"

Jo was determined to have it out now, and tried to look quite placid,
though she quaked a little after her bold speech. To her great relief
and surprise, the old gentleman only threw his spectacles on to the
table with a rattle, and exclaimed frankly,--

"You're right, girl, I am! I love the boy, but he tries my patience past
bearing, and I don't know how it will end, if we go on so."

"I'll tell you, he'll run away." Jo was sorry for that speech the
minute it was made; she meant to warn him that Laurie would not bear
much restraint, and hoped he would be more forbearing with the lad.

Mr. Laurence's ruddy face changed suddenly, and he sat down, with a
troubled glance at the picture of a handsome man, which hung over his
table. It was Laurie's father, who _had_ run away in his youth, and
married against the imperious old man's will. Jo fancied he remembered
and regretted the past, and she wished she had held her tongue.

"He won't do it unless he is very much worried, and only threatens it
sometimes, when he gets tired of studying. I often think I should like
to, especially since my hair was cut; so, if you ever miss us, you may
advertise for two boys, and look among the ships bound for India."

She laughed as she spoke, and Mr. Laurence looked relieved, evidently
taking the whole as a joke.

"You hussy, how dare you talk in that way? Where's your respect for me,
and your proper bringing up? Bless the boys and girls! What torments
they are; yet we can't do without them," he said, pinching her cheeks
good-humoredly. "Go and bring that boy down to his dinner, tell him it's
all right, and advise him not to put on tragedy airs with his
grandfather. I won't bear it."

"He won't come, sir; he feels badly because you didn't believe him when
he said he couldn't tell. I think the shaking hurt his feelings very
much."

Jo tried to look pathetic, but must have failed, for Mr. Laurence began
to laugh, and she knew the day was won.

"I'm sorry for that, and ought to thank him for not shaking _me_, I
suppose. What the dickens does the fellow expect?" and the old gentleman
looked a trifle ashamed of his own testiness.

"If I were you, I'd write him an apology, sir. He says he won't come
down till he has one, and talks about Washington, and goes on in an
absurd way. A formal apology will make him see how foolish he is, and
bring him down quite amiable. Try it; he likes fun, and this way is
better than talking. I'll carry it up, and teach him his duty."

Mr. Laurence gave her a sharp look, and put on his spectacles, saying
slowly, "You're a sly puss, but I don't mind being managed by you and
Beth. Here, give me a bit of paper, and let us have done with this
nonsense."

The note was written in the terms which one gentleman would use to
another after offering some deep insult. Jo dropped a kiss on the top of
Mr. Laurence's bald head, and ran up to slip the apology under Laurie's
door, advising him, through the key-hole, to be submissive, decorous,
and a few other agreeable impossibilities. Finding the door locked
again, she left the note to do its work, and was going quietly away,
when the young gentleman slid down the banisters, and waited for her at
the bottom, saying, with his most virtuous expression of countenance,
"What a good fellow you are, Jo! Did you get blown up?" he added,
laughing.

"No; he was pretty mild, on the whole."

"Ah! I got it all round; even you cast me off over there, and I felt
just ready to go to the deuce," he began apologetically.

"Don't talk in that way; turn over a new leaf and begin again, Teddy, my
son."

"I keep turning over new leaves, and spoiling them, as I used to spoil
my copy-books; and I make so many beginnings there never will be an
end," he said dolefully.

"Go and eat your dinner; you'll feel better after it. Men always croak
when they are hungry," and Jo whisked out at the front door after that.

"That's a 'label' on my 'sect,'" answered Laurie, quoting Amy, as he
went to partake of humble-pie dutifully with his grandfather, who was
quite saintly in temper and overwhelmingly respectful in manner all the
rest of the day.

Every one thought the matter ended and the little cloud blown over; but
the mischief was done, for, though others forgot it, Meg remembered. She
never alluded to a certain person, but she thought of him a good deal,
dreamed dreams more than ever; and once Jo, rummaging her sister's desk
for stamps, found a bit of paper scribbled over with the words, "Mrs.
John Brooke;" whereat she groaned tragically, and cast it into the fire,
feeling that Laurie's prank had hastened the evil day for her.

  [Illustration: Beth was soon able to lie on the study sofa all day]

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

completion: Jo keeps the promise she has made to her mother and doesn't discuss John Brooke with Meg. Meg can tell that Jo is keeping a secret, but doesn't know what it is. Laurie can also tell that Meg is keeping a secret. He teases and pesters Jo, and he figures out that it is something about John and Meg, but she still won't tell him the details. He decides to have his revenge with a prank. Meg seems to have forgotten the matter entirely, although Jo thinks she can detect signs of lovesickness. One day, Jo delivers the notes from the little "Post Office" between the houses. Meg receives a sealed note that makes her exclaim and blush. Meg says to herself that it - whatever "it" is - is all a mistake, and "he" didn't send the note after all. She's very upset and blames Jo for something. Jo and Mrs. March ask Meg to explain. She shows them a note signed with John Brooke's name, confessing his passion for her and asking her how she feels about him. Jo swears that she didn't write this note or play a trick on Meg. Mrs. March asks Meg if she answered this first note. Meg says that she did, and that she said that she was too young to think about getting attached, and that she didn't want to hide anything from her parents, and that he should talk to her father. Mrs. March is pleased with Meg's modest response and tells her that she did the right thing. Meg tells her mother and Jo that the second note, also signed by John Brooke, says that he didn't send her any love letter and thinks that Jo must have forged it. Meg is in despair, but when Jo examines the two notes, she thinks that they are both forgeries by Laurie and that John Brooke doesn't know anything about it. Mrs. March sends Jo to get Laurie. While she is gone, Mrs. March tells Meg that John has asked for permission to court her, and inquires about Meg's feelings. Meg says that the prank has made her scared and worried, and she can't think about having a lover at this point. When Jo comes back with Laurie, Meg goes to her room. Jo waits in the hall as Mrs. March spends a long time talking to Laurie, making him realize how cruel the prank really was, and how much mischief it could have caused. When Jo and Meg are called back into the room, Laurie apologizes to Meg and promises not to tell anyone else about the prank. Meg forgives Laurie, but Jo doesn't. Laurie is hurt and goes home with his nose in the air. Jo decides to go over to the Laurences' to tell Laurie that she forgives him. She finds out from the servants that Mr. Laurence and Laurie had a fight. Jo goes to see Laurie, who tells her that he fought with his grandfather because he couldn't reveal the reason Mrs. March was angry with him - doing so would have broken his promise to Meg not to tell anyone. Laurie says he wants to run away. For one crazy moment, he and Jo consider running away together and having adventures, and then Jo reminds him that he needs to stay with his grandfather and she has duties at home. Jo goes to see Mr. Laurence and explains that Laurie has already atoned for his bad behavior, and that he's keeping a secret to protect someone else. Mr. Laurence agrees to trust Laurie and not ask again about what happened. Jo gets Mr. Laurence to write a note in which he apologizes to Laurie. Jo takes the note to Laurie and encourages him to turn over a new leaf. Everyone forgets about the prank except Meg, who does start to have romantic daydreams abut John Brooke.


prompt:
Chapter: XXII. PLEASANT MEADOWS.

Like sunshine after storm were the peaceful weeks which followed. The
invalids improved rapidly, and Mr. March began to talk of returning
early in the new year. Beth was soon able to lie on the study sofa all
day, amusing herself with the well-beloved cats, at first, and, in time,
with doll's sewing, which had fallen sadly behindhand. Her once active
limbs were so stiff and feeble that Jo took her a daily airing about the
house in her strong arms. Meg cheerfully blackened and burnt her white
hands cooking delicate messes for "the dear;" while Amy, a loyal slave
of the ring, celebrated her return by giving away as many of her
treasures as she could prevail on her sisters to accept.

As Christmas approached, the usual mysteries began to haunt the house,
and Jo frequently convulsed the family by proposing utterly impossible
or magnificently absurd ceremonies, in honor of this unusually merry
Christmas. Laurie was equally impracticable, and would have had
bonfires, sky-rockets, and triumphal arches, if he had had his own way.
After many skirmishes and snubbings, the ambitious pair were considered
effectually quenched, and went about with forlorn faces, which were
rather belied by explosions of laughter when the two got together.

Several days of unusually mild weather fitly ushered in a splendid
Christmas Day. Hannah "felt in her bones" that it was going to be an
unusually fine day, and she proved herself a true prophetess, for
everybody and everything seemed bound to produce a grand success. To
begin with, Mr. March wrote that he should soon be with them; then Beth
felt uncommonly well that morning, and, being dressed in her mother's
gift,--a soft crimson merino wrapper,--was borne in triumph to the
window to behold the offering of Jo and Laurie. The Unquenchables had
done their best to be worthy of the name, for, like elves, they had
worked by night, and conjured up a comical surprise. Out in the garden
stood a stately snow-maiden, crowned with holly, bearing a basket of
fruit and flowers in one hand, a great roll of new music in the other, a
perfect rainbow of an Afghan round her chilly shoulders, and a Christmas
carol issuing from her lips, on a pink paper streamer:--

                         "THE JUNGFRAU TO BETH.

        "God bless you, dear Queen Bess!
          May nothing you dismay,
         But health and peace and happiness
          Be yours, this Christmas Day.

        "Here's fruit to feed our busy bee,
          And flowers for her nose;
         Here's music for her pianee,
          An Afghan for her toes.

        "A portrait of Joanna, see,
          By Raphael No. 2,
         Who labored with great industry
          To make it fair and true.

        "Accept a ribbon red, I beg,
          For Madam Purrer's tail;
         And ice-cream made by lovely Peg,--
          A Mont Blanc in a pail.

        "Their dearest love my makers laid
          Within my breast of snow:
         Accept it, and the Alpine maid,
          From Laurie and from Jo."

                      [Illustration: The Jungfrau]

How Beth laughed when she saw it, how Laurie ran up and down to bring in
the gifts, and what ridiculous speeches Jo made as she presented them!

"I'm so full of happiness, that, if father was only here, I couldn't
hold one drop more," said Beth, quite sighing with contentment as Jo
carried her off to the study to rest after the excitement, and to
refresh herself with some of the delicious grapes the "Jungfrau" had
sent her.

"So am I," added Jo, slapping the pocket wherein reposed the
long-desired Undine and Sintram.

"I'm sure I am," echoed Amy, poring over the engraved copy of the
Madonna and Child, which her mother had given her, in a pretty frame.

"Of course I am!" cried Meg, smoothing the silvery folds of her first
silk dress; for Mr. Laurence had insisted on giving it.

"How can _I_ be otherwise?" said Mrs. March gratefully, as her eyes went
from her husband's letter to Beth's smiling face, and her hand caressed
the brooch made of gray and golden, chestnut and dark brown hair, which
the girls had just fastened on her breast.

Now and then, in this work-a-day world, things do happen in the
delightful story-book fashion, and what a comfort that is. Half an hour
after every one had said they were so happy they could only hold one
drop more, the drop came. Laurie opened the parlor door, and popped his
head in very quietly. He might just as well have turned a somersault and
uttered an Indian war-whoop; for his face was so full of suppressed
excitement and his voice so treacherously joyful, that every one jumped
up, though he only said, in a queer, breathless voice, "Here's another
Christmas present for the March family."

Before the words were well out of his mouth, he was whisked away
somehow, and in his place appeared a tall man, muffled up to the eyes,
leaning on the arm of another tall man, who tried to say something and
couldn't. Of course there was a general stampede; and for several
minutes everybody seemed to lose their wits, for the strangest things
were done, and no one said a word. Mr. March became invisible in the
embrace of four pairs of loving arms; Jo disgraced herself by nearly
fainting away, and had to be doctored by Laurie in the china-closet; Mr.
Brooke kissed Meg entirely by mistake, as he somewhat incoherently
explained; and Amy, the dignified, tumbled over a stool, and, never
stopping to get up, hugged and cried over her father's boots in the most
touching manner. Mrs. March was the first to recover herself, and held
up her hand with a warning, "Hush! remember Beth!"

But it was too late; the study door flew open, the little red wrapper
appeared on the threshold,--joy put strength into the feeble limbs,--and
Beth ran straight into her father's arms. Never mind what happened just
after that; for the full hearts overflowed, washing away the bitterness
of the past, and leaving only the sweetness of the present.

It was not at all romantic, but a hearty laugh set everybody straight
again, for Hannah was discovered behind the door, sobbing over the fat
turkey, which she had forgotten to put down when she rushed up from the
kitchen. As the laugh subsided, Mrs. March began to thank Mr. Brooke for
his faithful care of her husband, at which Mr. Brooke suddenly
remembered that Mr. March needed rest, and, seizing Laurie, he
precipitately retired. Then the two invalids were ordered to repose,
which they did, by both sitting in one big chair, and talking hard.

Mr. March told how he had longed to surprise them, and how, when the
fine weather came, he had been allowed by his doctor to take advantage
of it; how devoted Brooke had been, and how he was altogether a most
estimable and upright young man. Why Mr. March paused a minute just
there, and, after a glance at Meg, who was violently poking the fire,
looked at his wife with an inquiring lift of the eyebrows, I leave you
to imagine; also why Mrs. March gently nodded her head, and asked,
rather abruptly, if he wouldn't have something to eat. Jo saw and
understood the look; and she stalked grimly away to get wine and
beef-tea, muttering to herself, as she slammed the door, "I hate
estimable young men with brown eyes!"

There never _was_ such a Christmas dinner as they had that day. The fat
turkey was a sight to behold, when Hannah sent him up, stuffed, browned,
and decorated; so was the plum-pudding, which quite melted in one's
mouth; likewise the jellies, in which Amy revelled like a fly in a
honey-pot. Everything turned out well, which was a mercy, Hannah said,
"For my mind was that flustered, mum, that it's a merrycle I didn't
roast the pudding, and stuff the turkey with raisins, let alone bilin'
of it in a cloth."

Mr. Laurence and his grandson dined with them, also Mr. Brooke,--at whom
Jo glowered darkly, to Laurie's infinite amusement. Two easy-chairs
stood side by side at the head of the table, in which sat Beth and her
father, feasting modestly on chicken and a little fruit. They drank
healths, told stories, sung songs, "reminisced," as the old folks say,
and had a thoroughly good time. A sleigh-ride had been planned, but the
girls would not leave their father; so the guests departed early, and,
as twilight gathered, the happy family sat together round the fire.

"Just a year ago we were groaning over the dismal Christmas we expected
to have. Do you remember?" asked Jo, breaking a short pause which had
followed a long conversation about many things.

"Rather a pleasant year on the whole!" said Meg, smiling at the fire,
and congratulating herself on having treated Mr. Brooke with dignity.

"I think it's been a pretty hard one," observed Amy, watching the light
shine on her ring, with thoughtful eyes.

"I'm glad it's over, because we've got you back," whispered Beth, who
sat on her father's knee.

"Rather a rough road for you to travel, my little pilgrims, especially
the latter part of it. But you have got on bravely; and I think the
burdens are in a fair way to tumble off very soon," said Mr. March,
looking with fatherly satisfaction at the four young faces gathered
round him.

"How do you know? Did mother tell you?" asked Jo.

"Not much; straws show which way the wind blows, and I've made several
discoveries to-day."

"Oh, tell us what they are!" cried Meg, who sat beside him.

"Here is one;" and taking up the hand which lay on the arm of his chair,
he pointed to the roughened forefinger, a burn on the back, and two or
three little hard spots on the palm. "I remember a time when this hand
was white and smooth, and your first care was to keep it so. It was very
pretty then, but to me it is much prettier now,--for in these seeming
blemishes I read a little history. A burnt-offering has been made of
vanity; this hardened palm has earned something better than blisters;
and I'm sure the sewing done by these pricked fingers will last a long
time, so much good-will went into the stitches. Meg, my dear, I value
the womanly skill which keeps home happy more than white hands or
fashionable accomplishments. I'm proud to shake this good, industrious
little hand, and hope I shall not soon be asked to give it away."

If Meg had wanted a reward for hours of patient labor, she received it
in the hearty pressure of her father's hand and the approving smile he
gave her.

"What about Jo? Please say something nice; for she has tried so hard,
and been so very, very good to me," said Beth, in her father's ear.

He laughed, and looked across at the tall girl who sat opposite, with an
unusually mild expression in her brown face.

"In spite of the curly crop, I don't see the 'son Jo' whom I left a year
ago," said Mr. March. "I see a young lady who pins her collar straight,
laces her boots neatly, and neither whistles, talks slang, nor lies on
the rug as she used to do. Her face is rather thin and pale, just now,
with watching and anxiety; but I like to look at it, for it has grown
gentler, and her voice is lower; she doesn't bounce, but moves quietly,
and takes care of a certain little person in a motherly way which
delights me. I rather miss my wild girl; but if I get a strong, helpful,
tender-hearted woman in her place, I shall feel quite satisfied. I don't
know whether the shearing sobered our black sheep, but I do know that in
all Washington I couldn't find anything beautiful enough to be bought
with the five-and-twenty dollars which my good girl sent me."

Jo's keen eyes were rather dim for a minute, and her thin face grew rosy
in the firelight, as she received her father's praise, feeling that she
did deserve a portion of it.

"Now Beth," said Amy, longing for her turn, but ready to wait.

"There's so little of her, I'm afraid to say much, for fear she will
slip away altogether, though she is not so shy as she used to be," began
their father cheerfully; but recollecting how nearly he _had_ lost her,
he held her close, saying tenderly, with her cheek against his own,
"I've got you safe, my Beth, and I'll keep you so, please God."

After a minute's silence, he looked down at Amy, who sat on the cricket
at his feet, and said, with a caress of the shining hair,--

"I observed that Amy took drumsticks at dinner, ran errands for her
mother all the afternoon, gave Meg her place to-night, and has waited
on every one with patience and good-humor. I also observe that she does
not fret much nor look in the glass, and has not even mentioned a very
pretty ring which she wears; so I conclude that she has learned to think
of other people more and of herself less, and has decided to try and
mould her character as carefully as she moulds her little clay figures.
I am glad of this; for though I should be very proud of a graceful
statue made by her, I shall be infinitely prouder of a lovable daughter,
with a talent for making life beautiful to herself and others."

"What are you thinking of, Beth?" asked Jo, when Amy had thanked her
father and told about her ring.

"I read in 'Pilgrim's Progress' to-day, how, after many troubles,
Christian and Hopeful came to a pleasant green meadow, where lilies
bloomed all the year round, and there they rested happily, as we do now,
before they went on to their journey's end," answered Beth; adding, as
she slipped out of her father's arms, and went slowly to the instrument,
"It's singing time now, and I want to be in my old place. I'll try to
sing the song of the shepherd-boy which the Pilgrims heard. I made the
music for father, because he likes the verses."

So, sitting at the dear little piano, Beth softly touched the keys, and,
in the sweet voice they had never thought to hear again, sung to her own
accompaniment the quaint hymn, which was a singularly fitting song for
her:--

        "He that is down need fear no fall,
          He that is low no pride;
         He that is humble ever shall
          Have God to be his guide.

        "I am content with what I have,
          Little be it or much;
         And, Lord! contentment still I crave,
          Because Thou savest such.

        "Fulness to them a burden is,
          That go on pilgrimage;
         Here little, and hereafter bliss,
          Is best from age to age!"

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

completion: Beth gets better and can actually move from her room and lie on the sofa in the living room. Beth's sisters continue to care for her. Amy returns home from Aunt March's house. The family receives news that Mr. March is also getting better and might come home soon. Jo and Laurie come up with all kinds of crazy plans to celebrate Christmas. Christmas Day is wonderful - Beth is mostly better, Mr. March is going to be home soon, and Jo and Laurie make a snow sculpture just outside the window to amuse Beth. In the mouth of the snow maiden is a scroll, and on the scroll is a song about Beth written to the tune of a Christmas carol by Jo. Unlike the previous Christmas, each sister has a gift that she really wanted - Meg has a new silk dress, Jo has the book she wanted last year, and Amy has a print of the painting that she fell in love with at Aunt March's. Even Marmee has a gift - a brooch that incorporates locks of hair from all four girls. Beth says that she just wishes she could have her father back. Just as she says so, Laurie comes in with another "present" - Mr. March, just arrived home, accompanied by John Brooke. Everyone hugs and kisses and greets each other. Even Beth gets up and runs to give her father a hug. After a comic interlude in which they find Hannah behind the door, crying over the turkey she forgot to leave in the kitchen, Mr. March and Beth sit down. Mr. March tells the family about his journey and about John Brooke's kindness. The family sits down and has a wonderful Christmas dinner. John Brooke, Mr. Laurence, and Laurie all eat with them. The girls talk about the contrast between their previous Christmas - remember it, back in Chapter 1? - and this Christmas. Mr. March comments on the change in each girl's demeanor. He notices that Meg is no longer so vain and works harder, that Jo is more feminine, that Amy is less selfish, and that Beth is less shy. Beth thinks about Pilgrim's Progress, especially about the part where Christian, the allegorical main character, gets to rest in a beautiful meadow in the middle of his pilgrimage. The chapter ends with Beth playing the piano and singing a hymn to the family.