prompt:
Chapter: Jo was very busy in the garret, for the October days began to grow
chilly, and the afternoons were short.  For two or three hours the sun
lay warmly in the high window, showing Jo seated on the old sofa,
writing busily, with her papers spread out upon a trunk before her,
while Scrabble, the pet rat, promenaded the beams overhead, accompanied
by his oldest son, a fine young fellow, who was evidently very proud of
his whiskers. Quite absorbed in her work, Jo scribbled away till the
last page was filled, when she signed her name with a flourish and
threw down her pen, exclaiming...

"There, I've done my best!  If this won't suit I shall have to wait
till I can do better."

Lying back on the sofa, she read the manuscript carefully through,
making dashes here and there, and putting in many exclamation points,
which looked like little balloons.  Then she tied it up with a smart
red ribbon, and sat a minute looking at it with a sober, wistful
expression, which plainly showed how earnest her work had been.  Jo's
desk up here was an old tin kitchen which hung against the wall.  In it
she kept her papers, and a few books, safely shut away from Scrabble,
who, being likewise of a literary turn, was fond of making a
circulating library of such books as were left in his way by eating the
leaves.  From this tin receptacle Jo produced another manuscript, and
putting both in her pocket, crept quietly downstairs, leaving her
friends to nibble on her pens and taste her ink.

She put on her hat and jacket as noiselessly as possible, and going to
the back entry window, got out upon the roof of a low porch, swung
herself down to the grassy bank, and took a roundabout way to the road.
Once there, she composed herself, hailed a passing omnibus, and rolled
away to town, looking very merry and mysterious.

If anyone had been watching her, he would have thought her movements
decidedly peculiar, for on alighting, she went off at a great pace till
she reached a certain number in a certain busy street.  Having found
the place with some difficulty, she went into the doorway, looked up
the dirty stairs, and after standing stock still a minute, suddenly
dived into the street and walked away as rapidly as she came.  This
maneuver she repeated several times, to the great amusement of a
black-eyed young gentleman lounging in the window of a building
opposite.  On returning for the third time, Jo gave herself a shake,
pulled her hat over her eyes, and walked up the stairs, looking as if
she were going to have all her teeth out.

There was a dentist's sign, among others, which adorned the entrance,
and after staring a moment at the pair of artificial jaws which slowly
opened and shut to draw attention to a fine set of teeth, the young
gentleman put on his coat, took his hat, and went down to post himself
in the opposite doorway, saying with a smile and a shiver, "It's like
her to come alone, but if she has a bad time she'll need someone to
help her home."

In ten minutes Jo came running downstairs with a very red face and the
general appearance of a person who had just passed through a trying
ordeal of some sort.  When she saw the young gentleman she looked
anything but pleased, and passed him with a nod.  But he followed,
asking with an air of sympathy, "Did you have a bad time?"

"Not very."

"You got through quickly."

"Yes, thank goodness!"

"Why did you go alone?"

"Didn't want anyone to know."

"You're the oddest fellow I ever saw.  How many did you have out?"

Jo looked at her friend as if she did not understand him, then began to
laugh as if mightily amused at something.

"There are two which I want to have come out, but I must wait a week."

"What are you laughing at?  You are up to some mischief, Jo," said
Laurie, looking mystified.

"So are you.  What were you doing, sir, up in that billiard saloon?"

"Begging your pardon, ma'am, it wasn't a billiard saloon, but a
gymnasium, and I was taking a lesson in fencing."

"I'm glad of that."

"Why?"

"You can teach me, and then when we play _Hamlet_, you can be Laertes,
and we'll make a fine thing of the fencing scene."

Laurie burst out with a hearty boy's laugh, which made several
passers-by smile in spite of themselves.

"I'll teach you whether we play _Hamlet_ or not.  It's grand fun and
will straighten you up capitally.  But I don't believe that was your
only reason for saying 'I'm glad' in that decided way, was it now?"

"No, I was glad that you were not in the saloon, because I hope you
never go to such places.  Do you?"

"Not often."

"I wish you wouldn't."

"It's no harm, Jo.  I have billiards at home, but it's no fun unless
you have good players, so, as I'm fond of it, I come sometimes and have
a game with Ned Moffat or some of the other fellows."

"Oh, dear, I'm so sorry, for you'll get to liking it better and better,
and will waste time and money, and grow like those dreadful boys.  I
did hope you'd stay respectable and be a satisfaction to your friends,"
said Jo, shaking her head.

"Can't a fellow take a little innocent amusement now and then without
losing his respectability?" asked Laurie, looking nettled.

"That depends upon how and where he takes it.  I don't like Ned and his
set, and wish you'd keep out of it.  Mother won't let us have him at
our house, though he wants to come.  And if you grow like him she won't
be willing to have us frolic together as we do now."

"Won't she?" asked Laurie anxiously.

"No, she can't bear fashionable young men, and she'd shut us all up in
bandboxes rather than have us associate with them."

"Well, she needn't get out her bandboxes yet.  I'm not a fashionable
party and don't mean to be, but I do like harmless larks now and then,
don't you?"

"Yes, nobody minds them, so lark away, but don't get wild, will you?
Or there will be an end of all our good times."

"I'll be a double distilled saint."

"I can't bear saints.  Just be a simple, honest, respectable boy, and
we'll never desert you.  I don't know what I should do if you acted
like Mr. King's son.  He had plenty of money, but didn't know how to
spend it, and got tipsy and gambled, and ran away, and forged his
father's name, I believe, and was altogether horrid."

"You think I'm likely to do the same?  Much obliged."

"No, I don't--oh, dear, no!--but I hear people talking about money
being such a temptation, and I sometimes wish you were poor. I
shouldn't worry then."

"Do you worry about me, Jo?"

"A little, when you look moody and discontented, as you sometimes do,
for you've got such a strong will, if you once get started wrong, I'm
afraid it would be hard to stop you."

Laurie walked in silence a few minutes, and Jo watched him, wishing she
had held her tongue, for his eyes looked angry, though his lips smiled
as if at her warnings.

"Are you going to deliver lectures all the way home?" he asked
presently.

"Of course not.  Why?"

"Because if you are, I'll take a bus.  If you're not, I'd like to walk
with you and tell you something very interesting."

"I won't preach any more, and I'd like to hear the news immensely."

"Very well, then, come on.  It's a secret, and if I tell you, you must
tell me yours."

"I haven't got any," began Jo, but stopped suddenly, remembering that
she had.

"You know you have--you can't hide anything, so up and 'fess, or I
won't tell," cried Laurie.

"Is your secret a nice one?"

"Oh, isn't it!  All about people you know, and such fun!  You ought to
hear it, and I've been aching to tell it this long time. Come, you
begin."

"You'll not say anything about it at home, will you?"

"Not a word."

"And you won't tease me in private?"

"I never tease."

"Yes, you do.  You get everything you want out of people.  I don't know
how you do it, but you are a born wheedler."

"Thank you.  Fire away."

"Well, I've left two stories with a newspaperman, and he's to give his
answer next week," whispered Jo, in her confidant's ear.

"Hurrah for Miss March, the celebrated American authoress!" cried
Laurie, throwing up his hat and catching it again, to the great delight
of two ducks, four cats, five hens, and half a dozen Irish children,
for they were out of the city now.

"Hush!  It won't come to anything, I dare say, but I couldn't rest till
I had tried, and I said nothing about it because I didn't want anyone
else to be disappointed."

"It won't fail.  Why, Jo, your stories are works of Shakespeare
compared to half the rubbish that is published every day. Won't it be
fun to see them in print, and shan't we feel proud of our authoress?"

Jo's eyes sparkled, for it is always pleasant to be believed in, and a
friend's praise is always sweeter than a dozen newspaper puffs.

"Where's your secret?  Play fair, Teddy, or I'll never believe you
again," she said, trying to extinguish the brilliant hopes that blazed
up at a word of encouragement.

"I may get into a scrape for telling, but I didn't promise not to, so I
will, for I never feel easy in my mind till I've told you any plummy
bit of news I get.  I know where Meg's glove is."

"Is that all?" said Jo, looking disappointed, as Laurie nodded and
twinkled with a face full of mysterious intelligence.

"It's quite enough for the present, as you'll agree when I tell you
where it is."

"Tell, then."

Laurie bent, and whispered three words in Jo's ear, which produced a
comical change.  She stood and stared at him for a minute, looking both
surprised and displeased, then walked on, saying sharply, "How do you
know?"

"Saw it."

"Where?"

"Pocket."

"All this time?"

"Yes, isn't that romantic?"

"No, it's horrid."

"Don't you like it?"

"Of course I don't.  It's ridiculous, it won't be allowed.  My
patience!  What would Meg say?"

"You are not to tell anyone.  Mind that."

"I didn't promise."

"That was understood, and I trusted you."

"Well, I won't for the present, anyway, but I'm disgusted, and wish you
hadn't told me."

"I thought you'd be pleased."

"At the idea of anybody coming to take Meg away? No, thank you."

"You'll feel better about it when somebody comes to take you away."

"I'd like to see anyone try it," cried Jo fiercely.

"So should I!" and Laurie chuckled at the idea.

"I don't think secrets agree with me, I feel rumpled up in my mind
since you told me that," said Jo rather ungratefully.

"Race down this hill with me, and you'll be all right," suggested
Laurie.

No one was in sight, the smooth road sloped invitingly before her, and
finding the temptation irresistible, Jo darted away, soon leaving hat
and comb behind her and scattering hairpins as she ran. Laurie reached
the goal first and was quite satisfied with the success of his
treatment, for his Atlanta came panting up with flying hair, bright
eyes, ruddy cheeks, and no signs of dissatisfaction in her face.

"I wish I was a horse, then I could run for miles in this splendid air,
and not lose my breath.  It was capital, but see what a guy it's made
me.  Go, pick up my things, like a cherub, as you are," said Jo,
dropping down under a maple tree, which was carpeting the bank with
crimson leaves.

Laurie leisurely departed to recover the lost property, and Jo bundled
up her braids, hoping no one would pass by till she was tidy again.
But someone did pass, and who should it be but Meg, looking
particularly ladylike in her state and festival suit, for she had been
making calls.

"What in the world are you doing here?" she asked, regarding her
disheveled sister with well-bred surprise.

"Getting leaves," meekly answered Jo, sorting the rosy handful she had
just swept up.

"And hairpins," added Laurie, throwing half a dozen into Jo's lap.
"They grow on this road, Meg, so do combs and brown straw hats."

"You have been running, Jo.  How could you?  When will you stop such
romping ways?" said Meg reprovingly, as she settled her cuffs and
smoothed her hair, with which the wind had taken liberties.

"Never till I'm stiff and old and have to use a crutch.  Don't try to
make me grow up before my time, Meg.  It's hard enough to have you
change all of a sudden.  Let me be a little girl as long as I can."

As she spoke, Jo bent over the leaves to hide the trembling of her
lips, for lately she had felt that Margaret was fast getting to be a
woman, and Laurie's secret made her dread the separation which must
surely come some time and now seemed very near.  He saw the trouble in
her face and drew Meg's attention from it by asking quickly, "Where
have you been calling, all so fine?"

"At the Gardiners', and Sallie has been telling me all about Belle
Moffat's wedding.  It was very splendid, and they have gone to spend
the winter in Paris.  Just think how delightful that must be!"

"Do you envy her, Meg?" said Laurie.

"I'm afraid I do."

"I'm glad of it!" muttered Jo, tying on her hat with a jerk.

"Why?" asked Meg, looking surprised.

"Because if you care much about riches, you will never go and marry a
poor man," said Jo, frowning at Laurie, who was mutely warning her to
mind what she said.

"I shall never '_go_ and marry' anyone," observed Meg, walking on with
great dignity while the others followed, laughing, whispering, skipping
stones, and 'behaving like children', as Meg said to herself, though
she might have been tempted to join them if she had not had her best
dress on.

For a week or two, Jo behaved so queerly that her sisters were quite
bewildered.  She rushed to the door when the postman rang, was rude to
Mr. Brooke whenever they met, would sit looking at Meg with a
woe-begone face, occasionally jumping up to shake and then kiss her in
a very mysterious manner.  Laurie and she were always making signs to
one another, and talking about 'Spread Eagles' till the girls declared
they had both lost their wits.  On the second Saturday after Jo got out
of the window, Meg, as she sat sewing at her window, was scandalized by
the sight of Laurie chasing Jo all over the garden and finally
capturing her in Amy's bower.  What went on there, Meg could not see,
but shrieks of laughter were heard, followed by the murmur of voices
and a great flapping of newspapers.

"What shall we do with that girl?  She never _will_ behave like a young
lady," sighed Meg, as she watched the race with a disapproving face.

"I hope she won't.  She is so funny and dear as she is," said Beth, who
had never betrayed that she was a little hurt at Jo's having secrets
with anyone but her.

"It's very trying, but we never can make her _commy la fo_," added Amy,
who sat making some new frills for herself, with her curls tied up in a
very becoming way, two agreeable things that made her feel unusually
elegant and ladylike.

In a few minutes Jo bounced in, laid herself on the sofa, and affected
to read.

"Have you anything interesting there?" asked Meg, with condescension.

"Nothing but a story, won't amount to much, I guess," returned Jo,
carefully keeping the name of the paper out of sight.

"You'd better read it aloud.  That will amuse us and keep you out of
mischief," said Amy in her most grown-up tone.

"What's the name?" asked Beth, wondering why Jo kept her face behind
the sheet.

"The Rival Painters."

"That sounds well.  Read it," said Meg.

With a loud "Hem!" and a long breath, Jo began to read very fast.  The
girls listened with interest, for the tale was romantic, and somewhat
pathetic, as most of the characters died in the end. "I like that about
the splendid picture," was Amy's approving remark, as Jo paused.

"I prefer the lovering part.  Viola and Angelo are two of our favorite
names, isn't that queer?" said Meg, wiping her eyes, for the lovering
part was tragical.

"Who wrote it?" asked Beth, who had caught a glimpse of Jo's face.

The reader suddenly sat up, cast away the paper, displaying a flushed
countenance, and with a funny mixture of solemnity and excitement
replied in a loud voice, "Your sister."

"You?" cried Meg, dropping her work.

"It's very good," said Amy critically.

"I knew it!  I knew it! Oh, my Jo, I am so proud!"  and Beth ran to hug
her sister and exult over this splendid success.

Dear me, how delighted they all were, to be sure!  How Meg wouldn't
believe it till she saw the words.  "Miss Josephine March," actually
printed in the paper.  How graciously Amy criticized the artistic parts
of the story, and offered hints for a sequel, which unfortunately
couldn't be carried out, as the hero and heroine were dead.  How Beth
got excited, and skipped and sang with joy.  How Hannah came in to
exclaim, "Sakes alive, well I never!" in great astonishment at 'that
Jo's doin's'.  How proud Mrs. March was when she knew it.  How Jo
laughed, with tears in her eyes, as she declared she might as well be a
peacock and done with it, and how the 'Spread Eagle' might be said to
flap his wings triumphantly over the House of March, as the paper
passed from hand to hand.

"Tell us about it."  "When did it come?" "How much did you get for it?"
"What will Father say?" "Won't Laurie laugh?" cried the family, all in
one breath as they clustered about Jo, for these foolish, affectionate
people made a jubilee of every little household joy.

"Stop jabbering, girls, and I'll tell you everything," said Jo,
wondering if Miss Burney felt any grander over her Evelina than she did
over her 'Rival Painters'.  Having told how she disposed of her tales,
Jo added, "And when I went to get my answer, the man said he liked them
both, but didn't pay beginners, only let them print in his paper, and
noticed the stories.  It was good practice, he said, and when the
beginners improved, anyone would pay.  So I let him have the two
stories, and today this was sent to me, and Laurie caught me with it
and insisted on seeing it, so I let him.  And he said it was good, and
I shall write more, and he's going to get the next paid for, and I am
so happy, for in time I may be able to support myself and help the
girls."

Jo's breath gave out here, and wrapping her head in the paper, she
bedewed her little story with a few natural tears, for to be
independent and earn the praise of those she loved were the dearest
wishes of her heart, and this seemed to be the first step toward that
happy end.

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

completion: Secrets Jo finishes the manuscripts for two stories and brings them to a newspaperman in town without telling anyone. She is very anxious. She meets Laurie as she comes out of the news office. After he pleads with her to tell him what is going on, she confides her secret. Laurie then tells Jo his secret--that Mr. Brooke has kept Meg's glove and carries it with him wherever he goes. This secret disgusts Jo, because she hates the idea of someone loving Meg and taking her away. Laurie, in an attempt to cheer Jo, persuades her to race him down a hill. In a wild, messy state, they encounter Meg, who has just visited the Gardiners. Meg reprimands Jo, though she secretly feels tempted to join their romp. For about a week, Jo behaves strangely. Then, one day, she reads a story aloud from a paper and announces at the end that the story was hers. She has not gotten paid, but she says that she will for future stories. She feels wonderfully independent


prompt:
Chapter: "November is the most disagreeable month in the whole year," said
Margaret, standing at the window one dull afternoon, looking out at the
frostbitten garden.

"That's the reason I was born in it," observed Jo pensively, quite
unconscious of the blot on her nose.

"If something very pleasant should happen now, we should think it a
delightful month," said Beth, who took a hopeful view of everything,
even November.

"I dare say, but nothing pleasant ever does happen in this family,"
said Meg, who was out of sorts.  "We go grubbing along day after day,
without a bit of change, and very little fun.  We might as well be in a
treadmill."

"My patience, how blue we are!" cried Jo.  "I don't much wonder, poor
dear, for you see other girls having splendid times, while you grind,
grind, year in and year out.  Oh, don't I wish I could manage things
for you as I do for my heroines!  You're pretty enough and good enough
already, so I'd have some rich relation leave you a fortune
unexpectedly.  Then you'd dash out as an heiress, scorn everyone who
has slighted you, go abroad, and come home my Lady Something in a blaze
of splendor and elegance."

"People don't have fortunes left them in that style nowadays, men have
to work and women marry for money.  It's a dreadfully unjust world,"
said Meg bitterly.

"Jo and I are going to make fortunes for you all.  Just wait ten years,
and see if we don't," said Amy, who sat in a corner making mud pies, as
Hannah called her little clay models of birds, fruit, and faces.

"Can't wait, and I'm afraid I haven't much faith in ink and dirt,
though I'm grateful for your good intentions."

Meg sighed, and turned to the frostbitten garden again.  Jo groaned and
leaned both elbows on the table in a despondent attitude, but Amy
spatted away energetically, and Beth, who sat at the other window,
said, smiling, "Two pleasant things are going to happen right away.
Marmee is coming down the street, and Laurie is tramping through the
garden as if he had something nice to tell."

In they both came, Mrs. March with her usual question, "Any letter from
Father, girls?" and Laurie to say in his persuasive way, "Won't some of
you come for a drive?  I've been working away at mathematics till my
head is in a muddle, and I'm going to freshen my wits by a brisk turn.
It's a dull day, but the air isn't bad, and I'm going to take Brooke
home, so it will be gay inside, if it isn't out.  Come, Jo, you and
Beth will go, won't you?"

"Of course we will."

"Much obliged, but I'm busy."  And Meg whisked out her workbasket, for
she had agreed with her mother that it was best, for her at least, not
to drive too often with the young gentleman.

"We three will be ready in a minute," cried Amy, running away to wash
her hands.

"Can I do anything for you, Madam Mother?" asked Laurie, leaning over
Mrs. March's chair with the affectionate look and tone he always gave
her.

"No, thank you, except call at the office, if you'll be so kind, dear.
It's our day for a letter, and the postman hasn't been.  Father is as
regular as the sun, but there's some delay on the way, perhaps."

A sharp ring interrupted her, and a minute after Hannah came in with a
letter.

"It's one of them horrid telegraph things, mum," she said, handling it
as if she was afraid it would explode and do some damage.

At the word 'telegraph', Mrs. March snatched it, read the two lines it
contained, and dropped back into her chair as white as if the little
paper had sent a bullet to her heart.  Laurie dashed downstairs for
water, while Meg and Hannah supported her, and Jo read aloud, in a
frightened voice...

    Mrs. March:
    Your husband is very ill.  Come at once.
    S.  HALE
    Blank Hospital, Washington.

How still the room was as they listened breathlessly, how strangely the
day darkened outside, and how suddenly the whole world seemed to
change, as the girls gathered about their mother, feeling as if all the
happiness and support of their lives was about to be taken from them.

Mrs. March was herself again directly, read the message over, and
stretched out her arms to her daughters, saying, in a tone they never
forgot, "I shall go at once, but it may be too late.  Oh, children,
children, help me to bear it!"

For several minutes there was nothing but the sound of sobbing in the
room, mingled with broken words of comfort, tender assurances of help,
and hopeful whispers that died away in tears.  Poor Hannah was the
first to recover, and with unconscious wisdom she set all the rest a
good example, for with her, work was panacea for most afflictions.

"The Lord keep the dear man!  I won't waste no time a-cryin', but git
your things ready right away, mum," she said heartily, as she wiped her
face on her apron, gave her mistress a warm shake of the hand with her
own hard one, and went away to work like three women in one.

"She's right, there's no time for tears now.  Be calm, girls, and let
me think."

They tried to be calm, poor things, as their mother sat up, looking
pale but steady, and put away her grief to think and plan for them.

"Where's Laurie?" she asked presently, when she had collected her
thoughts and decided on the first duties to be done.

"Here, ma'am.  Oh, let me do something!" cried the boy, hurrying from
the next room whither he had withdrawn, feeling that their first sorrow
was too sacred for even his friendly eyes to see.

"Send a telegram saying I will come at once.  The next train goes early
in the morning.  I'll take that."

"What else?  The horses are ready.  I can go anywhere, do anything," he
said, looking ready to fly to the ends of the earth.

"Leave a note at Aunt March's.  Jo, give me that pen and paper."

Tearing off the blank side of one of her newly copied pages, Jo drew
the table before her mother, well knowing that money for the long, sad
journey must be borrowed, and feeling as if she could do anything to
add a little to the sum for her father.

"Now go, dear, but don't kill yourself driving at a desperate pace.
There is no need of that."

Mrs. March's warning was evidently thrown away, for five minutes later
Laurie tore by the window on his own fleet horse, riding as if for his
life.

"Jo, run to the rooms, and tell Mrs. King that I can't come. On the way
get these things.  I'll put them down, they'll be needed and I must go
prepared for nursing.  Hospital stores are not always good.  Beth, go
and ask Mr. Laurence for a couple of bottles of old wine.  I'm not too
proud to beg for Father.  He shall have the best of everything.  Amy,
tell Hannah to get down the black trunk, and Meg, come and help me find
my things, for I'm half bewildered."

Writing, thinking, and directing all at once might well bewilder the
poor lady, and Meg begged her to sit quietly in her room for a little
while, and let them work.  Everyone scattered like leaves before a gust
of wind, and the quiet, happy household was broken up as suddenly as if
the paper had been an evil spell.

Mr. Laurence came hurrying back with Beth, bringing every comfort the
kind old gentleman could think of for the invalid, and friendliest
promises of protection for the girls during the mother's absence, which
comforted her very much.  There was nothing he didn't offer, from his
own dressing gown to himself as escort.  But the last was impossible.
Mrs. March would not hear of the old gentleman's undertaking the long
journey, yet an expression of relief was visible when he spoke of it,
for anxiety ill fits one for traveling. He saw the look, knit his heavy
eyebrows, rubbed his hands, and marched abruptly away, saying he'd be
back directly.  No one had time to think of him again till, as Meg ran
through the entry, with a pair of rubbers in one hand and a cup of tea
in the other, she came suddenly upon Mr. Brooke.

"I'm very sorry to hear of this, Miss March," he said, in the kind,
quiet tone which sounded very pleasantly to her perturbed spirit.  "I
came to offer myself as escort to your mother.  Mr. Laurence has
commissions for me in Washington, and it will give me real satisfaction
to be of service to her there."

Down dropped the rubbers, and the tea was very near following, as Meg
put out her hand, with a face so full of gratitude that Mr. Brooke
would have felt repaid for a much greater sacrifice than the trifling
one of time and comfort which he was about to take.

"How kind you all are!  Mother will accept, I'm sure, and it will be
such a relief to know that she has someone to take care of her.  Thank
you very, very much!"

Meg spoke earnestly, and forgot herself entirely till something in the
brown eyes looking down at her made her remember the cooling tea, and
lead the way into the parlor, saying she would call her mother.

Everything was arranged by the time Laurie returned with a note from
Aunt March, enclosing the desired sum, and a few lines repeating what
she had often said before, that she had always told them it was absurd
for March to go into the army, always predicted that no good would come
of it, and she hoped they would take her advice the next time.  Mrs.
March put the note in the fire, the money in her purse, and went on
with her preparations, with her lips folded tightly in a way which Jo
would have understood if she had been there.

The short afternoon wore away.  All other errands were done, and Meg
and her mother busy at some necessary needlework, while Beth and Amy
got tea, and Hannah finished her ironing with what she called a 'slap
and a bang', but still Jo did not come.  They began to get anxious, and
Laurie went off to find her, for no one knew what freak Jo might take
into her head.  He missed her, however, and she came walking in with a
very queer expression of countenance, for there was a mixture of fun
and fear, satisfaction and regret in it, which puzzled the family as
much as did the roll of bills she laid before her mother, saying with a
little choke in her voice, "That's my contribution toward making Father
comfortable and bringing him home!"

"My dear, where did you get it?  Twenty-five dollars!  Jo, I hope you
haven't done anything rash?"

"No, it's mine honestly.  I didn't beg, borrow, or steal it.  I earned
it, and I don't think you'll blame me, for I only sold what was my own."

As she spoke, Jo took off her bonnet, and a general outcry arose, for
all her abundant hair was cut short.

"Your hair!  Your beautiful hair!"  "Oh, Jo, how could you? Your one
beauty."  "My dear girl, there was no need of this."  "She doesn't look
like my Jo any more, but I love her dearly for it!"

As everyone exclaimed, and Beth hugged the cropped head tenderly, Jo
assumed an indifferent air, which did not deceive anyone a particle,
and said, rumpling up the brown bush and trying to look as if she liked
it, "It doesn't affect the fate of the nation, so don't wail, Beth.  It
will be good for my vanity, I was getting too proud of my wig.  It will
do my brains good to have that mop taken off.  My head feels
deliciously light and cool, and the barber said I could soon have a
curly crop, which will be boyish, becoming, and easy to keep in order.
I'm satisfied, so please take the money and let's have supper."

"Tell me all about it, Jo.  I am not quite satisfied, but I can't blame
you, for I know how willingly you sacrificed your vanity, as you call
it, to your love.  But, my dear, it was not necessary, and I'm afraid
you will regret it one of these days," said Mrs. March.

"No, I won't!" returned Jo stoutly, feeling much relieved that her
prank was not entirely condemned.

"What made you do it?" asked Amy, who would as soon have thought of
cutting off her head as her pretty hair.

"Well, I was wild to do something for Father," replied Jo, as they
gathered about the table, for healthy young people can eat even in the
midst of trouble.  "I hate to borrow as much as Mother does, and I knew
Aunt March would croak, she always does, if you ask for a ninepence.
Meg gave all her quarterly salary toward the rent, and I only got some
clothes with mine, so I felt wicked, and was bound to have some money,
if I sold the nose off my face to get it."

"You needn't feel wicked, my child! You had no winter things and got
the simplest with your own hard earnings," said Mrs. March with a look
that warmed Jo's heart.

"I hadn't the least idea of selling my hair at first, but as I went
along I kept thinking what I could do, and feeling as if I'd like to
dive into some of the rich stores and help myself.  In a barber's
window I saw tails of hair with the prices marked, and one black tail,
not so thick as mine, was forty dollars.  It came to me all of a sudden
that I had one thing to make money out of, and without stopping to
think, I walked in, asked if they bought hair, and what they would give
for mine."

"I don't see how you dared to do it," said Beth in a tone of awe.

"Oh, he was a little man who looked as if he merely lived to oil his
hair.  He rather stared at first, as if he wasn't used to having girls
bounce into his shop and ask him to buy their hair.  He said he didn't
care about mine, it wasn't the fashionable color, and he never paid
much for it in the first place.  The work put into it made it dear, and
so on.  It was getting late, and I was afraid if it wasn't done right
away that I shouldn't have it done at all, and you know when I start to
do a thing, I hate to give it up.  So I begged him to take it, and told
him why I was in such a hurry.  It was silly, I dare say, but it
changed his mind, for I got rather excited, and told the story in my
topsy-turvy way, and his wife heard, and said so kindly, 'Take it,
Thomas, and oblige the young lady.  I'd do as much for our Jimmy any
day if I had a spire of hair worth selling."

"Who was Jimmy?" asked Amy, who liked to have things explained as they
went along.

"Her son, she said, who was in the army.  How friendly such things make
strangers feel, don't they?  She talked away all the time the man
clipped, and diverted my mind nicely."

"Didn't you feel dreadfully when the first cut came?" asked Meg, with a
shiver.

"I took a last look at my hair while the man got his things, and that
was the end of it.  I never snivel over trifles like that. I will
confess, though, I felt queer when I saw the dear old hair laid out on
the table, and felt only the short rough ends of my head. It almost
seemed as if I'd an arm or leg off.  The woman saw me look at it, and
picked out a long lock for me to keep.  I'll give it to you, Marmee,
just to remember past glories by, for a crop is so comfortable I don't
think I shall ever have a mane again."

Mrs. March folded the wavy chestnut lock, and laid it away with a short
gray one in her desk.  She only said, "Thank you, deary," but something
in her face made the girls change the subject, and talk as cheerfully
as they could about Mr. Brooke's kindness, the prospect of a fine day
tomorrow, and the happy times they would have when Father came home to
be nursed.

No one wanted to go to bed when at ten o'clock Mrs. March put by the
last finished job, and said, "Come girls."  Beth went to the piano and
played the father's favorite hymn.  All began bravely, but broke down
one by one till Beth was left alone, singing with all her heart, for to
her music was always a sweet consoler.

"Go to bed and don't talk, for we must be up early and shall need all
the sleep we can get.  Good night, my darlings," said Mrs. March, as
the hymn ended, for no one cared to try another.

They kissed her quietly, and went to bed as silently as if the dear
invalid lay in the next room.  Beth and Amy soon fell asleep in spite
of the great trouble, but Meg lay awake, thinking the most serious
thoughts she had ever known in her short life.  Jo lay motionless, and
her sister fancied that she was asleep, till a stifled sob made her
exclaim, as she touched a wet cheek...

"Jo, dear, what is it?  Are you crying about father?"

"No, not now."

"What then?"

"My... My hair!" burst out poor Jo, trying vainly to smother her
emotion in the pillow.

It did not seem at all comical to Meg, who kissed and caressed the
afflicted heroine in the tenderest manner.

"I'm not sorry," protested Jo, with a choke.  "I'd do it again
tomorrow, if I could.  It's only the vain part of me that goes and
cries in this silly way.  Don't tell anyone, it's all over now.  I
thought you were asleep, so I just made a little private moan for my
one beauty.  How came you to be awake?"

"I can't sleep, I'm so anxious," said Meg.

"Think about something pleasant, and you'll soon drop off."

"I tried it, but felt wider awake than ever."

"What did you think of?"

"Handsome faces--eyes particularly," answered Meg, smiling to herself
in the dark.

"What color do you like best?"

"Brown, that is, sometimes.  Blue are lovely."

Jo laughed, and Meg sharply ordered her not to talk, then amiably
promised to make her hair curl, and fell asleep to dream of living in
her castle in the air.

The clocks were striking midnight and the rooms were very still as a
figure glided quietly from bed to bed, smoothing a coverlet here,
settling a pillow there, and pausing to look long and tenderly at each
unconscious face, to kiss each with lips that mutely blessed, and to
pray the fervent prayers which only mothers utter.  As she lifted the
curtain to look out into the dreary night, the moon broke suddenly from
behind the clouds and shone upon her like a bright, benignant face,
which seemed to whisper in the silence, "Be comforted, dear soul!
There is always light behind the clouds."

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

completion: A Telegram  November arrives, and everyone is glum. Marmee receives a telegram saying that Mr. March is ill and that she must go to Washington, D. C. to be with him. Marmee sends Laurie to ask Aunt March for money and sends Beth to ask Mr. Laurence for wine. In the spirit of the moment, Jo runs out to find a way to contribute. Later, Mr. Laurence offers Mr. Brooke as a travel companion for Marmee, and she gratefully accepts Mr. Brooke's company. Jo returns home, having earned twenty-five dollars by selling her hair. Pretty Amy is horrified that Jo has lost her "one beauty. Jo, however, is not sad until late at night, when she cries a little for her lost hair.


prompt:
Chapter: In the cold gray dawn the sisters lit their lamp and read their chapter
with an earnestness never felt before.  For now the shadow of a real
trouble had come, the little books were full of help and comfort, and
as they dressed, they agreed to say goodbye cheerfully and hopefully,
and send their mother on her anxious journey unsaddened by tears or
complaints from them.  Everything seemed very strange when they went
down, so dim and still outside, so full of light and bustle within.
Breakfast at that early hour seemed odd, and even Hannah's familiar
face looked unnatural as she flew about her kitchen with her nightcap
on.  The big trunk stood ready in the hall, Mother's cloak and bonnet
lay on the sofa, and Mother herself sat trying to eat, but looking so
pale and worn with sleeplessness and anxiety that the girls found it
very hard to keep their resolution.  Meg's eyes kept filling in spite
of herself, Jo was obliged to hide her face in the kitchen roller more
than once, and the little girls wore a grave, troubled expression, as
if sorrow was a new experience to them.

Nobody talked much, but as the time drew very near and they sat waiting
for the carriage, Mrs. March said to the girls, who were all busied
about her, one folding her shawl, another smoothing out the strings of
her bonnet, a third putting on her overshoes, and a fourth fastening up
her travelling bag...

"Children, I leave you to Hannah's care and Mr. Laurence's protection.
Hannah is faithfulness itself, and our good neighbor will guard you as
if you were his own.  I have no fears for you, yet I am anxious that
you should take this trouble rightly.  Don't grieve and fret when I am
gone, or think that you can be idle and comfort yourselves by being
idle and trying to forget.  Go on with your work as usual, for work is
a blessed solace.  Hope and keep busy, and whatever happens, remember
that you never can be fatherless."

"Yes, Mother."

"Meg, dear, be prudent, watch over your sisters, consult Hannah, and in
any perplexity, go to Mr. Laurence.  Be patient, Jo, don't get
despondent or do rash things, write to me often, and be my brave girl,
ready to help and cheer all.  Beth, comfort yourself with your music,
and be faithful to the little home duties, and you, Amy, help all you
can, be obedient, and keep happy safe at home."

"We will, Mother!  We will!"

The rattle of an approaching carriage made them all start and listen.
That was the hard minute, but the girls stood it well.  No one cried,
no one ran away or uttered a lamentation, though their hearts were very
heavy as they sent loving messages to Father, remembering, as they
spoke that it might be too late to deliver them. They kissed their
mother quietly, clung about her tenderly, and tried to wave their hands
cheerfully when she drove away.

Laurie and his grandfather came over to see her off, and Mr. Brooke
looked so strong and sensible and kind that the girls christened him
'Mr. Greatheart' on the spot.

"Good-by, my darlings!  God bless and keep us all!" whispered Mrs.
March, as she kissed one dear little face after the other, and hurried
into the carriage.

As she rolled away, the sun came out, and looking back, she saw it
shining on the group at the gate like a good omen.  They saw it also,
and smiled and waved their hands, and the last thing she beheld as she
turned the corner was the four bright faces, and behind them like a
bodyguard, old Mr. Laurence, faithful Hannah, and devoted Laurie.

"How kind everyone is to us!" she said, turning to find fresh proof of
it in the respectful sympathy of the young man's face.

"I don't see how they can help it," returned Mr. Brooke, laughing so
infectiously that Mrs. March could not help smiling. And so the journey
began with the good omens of sunshine, smiles, and cheerful words.

"I feel as if there had been an earthquake," said Jo, as their
neighbors went home to breakfast, leaving them to rest and refresh
themselves.

"It seems as if half the house was gone," added Meg forlornly.

Beth opened her lips to say something, but could only point to the pile
of nicely mended hose which lay on Mother's table, showing that even in
her last hurried moments she had thought and worked for them.  It was a
little thing, but it went straight to their hearts, and in spite of
their brave resolutions, they all broke down and cried bitterly.

Hannah wisely allowed them to relieve their feelings, and when the
shower showed signs of clearing up, she came to the rescue, armed with
a coffeepot.

"Now, my dear young ladies, remember what your ma said, and don't fret.
Come and have a cup of coffee all round, and then let's fall to work
and be a credit to the family."

Coffee was a treat, and Hannah showed great tact in making it that
morning.  No one could resist her persuasive nods, or the fragrant
invitation issuing from the nose of the coffee pot.  They drew up to
the table, exchanged their handkerchiefs for napkins, and in ten
minutes were all right again.

"'Hope and keep busy', that's the motto for us, so let's see who will
remember it best.  I shall go to Aunt March, as usual. Oh, won't she
lecture though!" said Jo, as she sipped with returning spirit.

"I shall go to my Kings, though I'd much rather stay at home and attend
to things here," said Meg, wishing she hadn't made her eyes so red.

"No need of that.  Beth and I can keep house perfectly well," put in
Amy, with an important air.

"Hannah will tell us what to do, and we'll have everything nice when
you come home," added Beth, getting out her mop and dish tub without
delay.

"I think anxiety is very interesting," observed Amy, eating sugar
pensively.

The girls couldn't help laughing, and felt better for it, though Meg
shook her head at the young lady who could find consolation in a sugar
bowl.

The sight of the turnovers made Jo sober again; and when the two went
out to their daily tasks, they looked sorrowfully back at the window
where they were accustomed to see their mother's face.  It was gone,
but Beth had remembered the little household ceremony, and there she
was, nodding away at them like a rosyfaced mandarin.

"That's so like my Beth!" said Jo, waving her hat, with a grateful
face.  "Goodbye, Meggy, I hope the Kings won't strain today.  Don't
fret about Father, dear," she added, as they parted.

"And I hope Aunt March won't croak.  Your hair is becoming, and it
looks very boyish and nice," returned Meg, trying not to smile at the
curly head, which looked comically small on her tall sister's shoulders.

"That's my only comfort." And, touching her hat a la Laurie, away went
Jo, feeling like a shorn sheep on a wintry day.

News from their father comforted the girls very much, for though
dangerously ill, the presence of the best and tenderest of nurses had
already done him good.  Mr. Brooke sent a bulletin every day, and as
the head of the family, Meg insisted on reading the dispatches, which
grew more cheerful as the week passed.  At first, everyone was eager to
write, and plump envelopes were carefully poked into the letter box by
one or other of the sisters, who felt rather important with their
Washington correspondence.  As one of these packets contained
characteristic notes from the party, we will rob an imaginary mail, and
read them.

My dearest Mother:

It is impossible to tell you how happy your last letter made us, for
the news was so good we couldn't help laughing and crying over it.  How
very kind Mr. Brooke is, and how fortunate that Mr. Laurence's business
detains him near you so long, since he is so useful to you and Father.
The girls are all as good as gold.  Jo helps me with the sewing, and
insists on doing all sorts of hard jobs.  I should be afraid she might
overdo, if I didn't know her 'moral fit' wouldn't last long.  Beth is
as regular about her tasks as a clock, and never forgets what you told
her.  She grieves about Father, and looks sober except when she is at
her little piano.  Amy minds me nicely, and I take great care of her.
She does her own hair, and I am teaching her to make buttonholes and
mend her stockings. She tries very hard, and I know you will be pleased
with her improvement when you come.  Mr. Laurence watches over us like
a motherly old hen, as Jo says, and Laurie is very kind and neighborly.
He and Jo keep us merry, for we get pretty blue sometimes, and feel
like orphans, with you so far away.  Hannah is a perfect saint.  She
does not scold at all, and always calls me Miss Margaret, which is
quite proper, you know, and treats me with respect.  We are all well
and busy, but we long, day and night, to have you back.  Give my
dearest love to Father, and believe me, ever your own...

MEG

This note, prettily written on scented paper, was a great contrast to
the next, which was scribbled on a big sheet of thin foreign paper,
ornamented with blots and all manner of flourishes and curly-tailed
letters.

My precious Marmee:

Three cheers for dear Father!  Brooke was a trump to telegraph right
off, and let us know the minute he was better.  I rushed up garret when
the letter came, and tried to thank god for being so good to us, but I
could only cry, and say, "I'm glad!  I'm glad!" Didn't that do as well
as a regular prayer?  For I felt a great many in my heart.  We have
such funny times, and now I can enjoy them, for everyone is so
desperately good, it's like living in a nest of turtledoves.  You'd
laugh to see Meg head the table and try to be motherish.  She gets
prettier every day, and I'm in love with her sometimes.  The children
are regular archangels, and I--well, I'm Jo, and never shall be
anything else.  Oh, I must tell you that I came near having a quarrel
with Laurie.  I freed my mind about a silly little thing, and he was
offended.  I was right, but didn't speak as I ought, and he marched
home, saying he wouldn't come again till I begged pardon.  I declared I
wouldn't and got mad. It lasted all day.  I felt bad and wanted you
very much.  Laurie and I are both so proud, it's hard to beg pardon.
But I thought he'd come to it, for I was in the right.  He didn't come,
and just at night I remembered what you said when Amy fell into the
river.  I read my little book, felt better, resolved not to let the sun
set on my anger, and ran over to tell Laurie I was sorry.  I met him at
the gate, coming for the same thing.  We both laughed, begged each
other's pardon, and felt all good and comfortable again.

I made a 'pome' yesterday, when I was helping Hannah wash, and as
Father likes my silly little things, I put it in to amuse him.  Give
him my lovingest hug that ever was, and kiss yourself a dozen times for
your...

TOPSY-TURVY JO

    A SONG FROM THE SUDS

    Queen of my tub, I merrily sing,
    While the white foam rises high,
    And sturdily wash and rinse and wring,
    And fasten the clothes to dry.
    Then out in the free fresh air they swing,
    Under the sunny sky.

    I wish we could wash from our hearts and souls
    The stains of the week away,
    And let water and air by their magic make
    Ourselves as pure as they.
    Then on the earth there would be indeed,
    A glorious washing day!

    Along the path of a useful life,
    Will heart's-ease ever bloom.
    The busy mind has no time to think
    Of sorrow or care or gloom.
    And anxious thoughts may be swept away,
    As we bravely wield a broom.

    I am glad a task to me is given,
    To labor at day by day,
    For it brings me health and strength and hope,
    And I cheerfully learn to say,
    "Head, you may think, Heart, you may feel,
    But, Hand, you shall work alway!"

Dear Mother,

There is only room for me to send my love, and some pressed pansies
from the root I have been keeping safe in the house for Father to see.
I read every morning, try to be good all day, and sing myself to sleep
with Father's tune.  I can't sing 'LAND OF THE LEAL' now, it makes me
cry.  Everyone is very kind, and we are as happy as we can be without
you.  Amy wants the rest of the page, so I must stop.  I didn't forget
to cover the holders, and I wind the clock and air the rooms every day.

Kiss dear Father on the cheek he calls mine.  Oh, do come soon to your
loving...

LITTLE BETH

Ma Chere Mamma,

We are all well I do my lessons always and never corroberate the
girls--Meg says I mean contradick so I put in both words and you can
take the properest.  Meg is a great comfort to me and lets me have
jelly every night at tea its so good for me Jo says because it keeps me
sweet tempered.  Laurie is not as respeckful as he ought to be now I am
almost in my teens, he calls me Chick and hurts my feelings by talking
French to me very fast when I say Merci or Bon jour as Hattie King
does.  The sleeves of my blue dress were all worn out, and Meg put in
new ones, but the full front came wrong and they are more blue than the
dress.  I felt bad but did not fret I bear my troubles well but I do
wish Hannah would put more starch in my aprons and have buckwheats
every day.  Can't she?  Didn't I make that interrigation point nice?
Meg says my punchtuation and spelling are disgraceful and I am
mortyfied but dear me I have so many things to do, I can't stop.
Adieu, I send heaps of love to Papa.  Your affectionate daughter...

AMY CURTIS MARCH

Dear Mis March,

I jes drop a line to say we git on fust rate.  The girls is clever and
fly round right smart.  Miss Meg is going to make a proper good
housekeeper.  She hes the liking for it, and gits the hang of things
surprisin quick.  Jo doos beat all for goin ahead, but she don't stop
to cal'k'late fust, and you never know where she's like to bring up.
She done out a tub of clothes on Monday, but she starched 'em afore
they was wrenched, and blued a pink calico dress till I thought I
should a died a laughin.  Beth is the best of little creeters, and a
sight of help to me, bein so forehanded and dependable.  She tries to
learn everything, and really goes to market beyond her years, likewise
keeps accounts, with my help, quite wonderful.  We have got on very
economical so fur.  I don't let the girls hev coffee only once a week,
accordin to your wish, and keep em on plain wholesome vittles.  Amy
does well without frettin, wearin her best clothes and eatin sweet
stuff. Mr. Laurie is as full of didoes as usual, and turns the house
upside down frequent, but he heartens the girls, so I let em hev full
swing.  The old gentleman sends heaps of things, and is rather wearin,
but means wal, and it aint my place to say nothin.  My bread is riz, so
no more at this time.  I send my duty to Mr. March, and hope he's seen
the last of his Pewmonia.

Yours respectful,

Hannah Mullet

Head Nurse of Ward No. 2,

All serene on the Rappahannock, troops in fine condition, commisary
department well conducted, the Home Guard under Colonel Teddy always on
duty, Commander in Chief General Laurence reviews the army daily,
Quartermaster Mullet keeps order in camp, and Major Lion does picket
duty at night.  A salute of twenty-four guns was fired on receipt of
good news from Washington, and a dress parade took place at
headquarters.  Commander in chief sends best wishes, in which he is
heartily joined by...

COLONEL TEDDY

Dear Madam:

The little girls are all well.  Beth and my boy report daily. Hannah is
a model servant, and guards pretty Meg like a dragon. Glad the fine
weather holds.  Pray make Brooke useful, and draw on me for funds if
expenses exceed your estimate.  Don't let your husband want anything.
Thank God he is mending.

Your sincere friend and servant, JAMES LAURENCE

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

completion: Letters Marmee departs, and the girls communicate with her by letter. The girls write letters in their own ways: Meg writes of everyday events in a refined way; Jo writes impassioned letters with slang and silly poems; Beth sends simple notes of love; and Amy strives for sophistication but ends up discussing trivialities. Hannah writes misspelled letters about home life, while Laurie writes short, humorous tidbits, and Mr. Laurence writes informative and sincere notes


prompt:
Chapter: For a week the amount of virtue in the old house would have supplied
the neighborhood.  It was really amazing, for everyone seemed in a
heavenly frame of mind, and self-denial was all the fashion.  Relieved
of their first anxiety about their father, the girls insensibly relaxed
their praiseworthy efforts a little, and began to fall back into old
ways.  They did not forget their motto, but hoping and keeping busy
seemed to grow easier, and after such tremendous exertions, they felt
that Endeavor deserved a holiday, and gave it a good many.

Jo caught a bad cold through neglect to cover the shorn head enough,
and was ordered to stay at home till she was better, for Aunt March
didn't like to hear people read with colds in their heads.  Jo liked
this, and after an energetic rummage from garret to cellar, subsided on
the sofa to nurse her cold with arsenicum and books.  Amy found that
housework and art did not go well together, and returned to her mud
pies.  Meg went daily to her pupils, and sewed, or thought she did, at
home, but much time was spent in writing long letters to her mother, or
reading the Washington dispatches over and over.  Beth kept on, with
only slight relapses into idleness or grieving.

All the little duties were faithfully done each day, and many of her
sisters' also, for they were forgetful, and the house seemed like a
clock whose pendulum was gone a-visiting.  When her heart got heavy
with longings for Mother or fears for Father, she went away into a
certain closet, hid her face in the folds of a dear old gown, and made
her little moan and prayed her little prayer quietly by herself.
Nobody knew what cheered her up after a sober fit, but everyone felt
how sweet and helpful Beth was, and fell into a way of going to her for
comfort or advice in their small affairs.

All were unconscious that this experience was a test of character, and
when the first excitement was over, felt that they had done well and
deserved praise.  So they did, but their mistake was in ceasing to do
well, and they learned this lesson through much anxiety and regret.

"Meg, I wish you'd go and see the Hummels.  You know Mother told us not
to forget them." said Beth, ten days after Mrs. March's departure.

"I'm too tired to go this afternoon," replied Meg, rocking comfortably
as she sewed.

"Can't you, Jo?" asked Beth.

"Too stormy for me with my cold."

"I thought it was almost well."

"It's well enough for me to go out with Laurie, but not well enough to
go to the Hummels'," said Jo, laughing, but looking a little ashamed of
her inconsistency.

"Why don't you go yourself?" asked Meg.

"I have been every day, but the baby is sick, and I don't know what to
do for it.  Mrs. Hummel goes away to work, and Lottchen takes care of
it.  But it gets sicker and sicker, and I think you or Hannah ought to
go."

Beth spoke earnestly, and Meg promised she would go tomorrow.

"Ask Hannah for some nice little mess, and take it round, Beth, the air
will do you good," said Jo, adding apologetically, "I'd go but I want
to finish my writing."

"My head aches and I'm tired, so I thought maybe some of you would go,"
said Beth.

"Amy will be in presently, and she will run down for us," suggested Meg.

So Beth lay down on the sofa, the others returned to their work, and
the Hummels were forgotten.  An hour passed.  Amy did not come, Meg
went to her room to try on a new dress, Jo was absorbed in her story,
and Hannah was sound asleep before the kitchen fire, when Beth quietly
put on her hood, filled her basket with odds and ends for the poor
children, and went out into the chilly air with a heavy head and a
grieved look in her patient eyes.  It was late when she came back, and
no one saw her creep upstairs and shut herself into her mother's room.
Half an hour after, Jo went to 'Mother's closet' for something, and
there found little Beth sitting on the medicine chest, looking very
grave, with red eyes and a camphor bottle in her hand.

"Christopher Columbus!  What's the matter?" cried Jo, as Beth put out
her hand as if to warn her off, and asked quickly. . .

"You've had the scarlet fever, haven't you?"

"Years ago, when Meg did.  Why?"

"Then I'll tell you.  Oh, Jo, the baby's dead!"

"What baby?"

"Mrs. Hummel's.  It died in my lap before she got home," cried Beth
with a sob.

"My poor dear, how dreadful for you!  I ought to have gone," said Jo,
taking her sister in her arms as she sat down in her mother's big
chair, with a remorseful face.

"It wasn't dreadful, Jo, only so sad!  I saw in a minute it was sicker,
but Lottchen said her mother had gone for a doctor, so I took Baby and
let Lotty rest.  It seemed asleep, but all of a sudden if gave a little
cry and trembled, and then lay very still. I tried to warm its feet,
and Lotty gave it some milk, but it didn't stir, and I knew it was
dead."

"Don't cry, dear!  What did you do?"

"I just sat and held it softly till Mrs. Hummel came with the doctor.
He said it was dead, and looked at Heinrich and Minna, who have sore
throats.  'Scarlet fever, ma'am.  Ought to have called me before,' he
said crossly.  Mrs. Hummel told him she was poor, and had tried to cure
baby herself, but now it was too late, and she could only ask him to
help the others and trust to charity for his pay.  He smiled then, and
was kinder, but it was very sad, and I cried with them till he turned
round all of a sudden, and told me to go home and take belladonna right
away, or I'd have the fever."

"No, you won't!" cried Jo, hugging her close, with a frightened look.
"Oh, Beth, if you should be sick I never could forgive myself! What
shall we do?"

"Don't be frightened, I guess I shan't have it badly.  I looked in
Mother's book, and saw that it begins with headache, sore throat, and
queer feelings like mine, so I did take some belladonna, and I feel
better," said Beth, laying her cold hands on her hot forehead and
trying to look well.

"If Mother was only at home!" exclaimed Jo, seizing the book, and
feeling that Washington was an immense way off.  She read a page,
looked at Beth, felt her head, peeped into her throat, and then said
gravely, "You've been over the baby every day for more than a week, and
among the others who are going to have it, so I'm afraid you are going
to have it, Beth.  I'll call Hannah, she knows all about sickness."

"Don't let Amy come.  She never had it, and I should hate to give it to
her.  Can't you and Meg have it over again?" asked Beth, anxiously.

"I guess not.  Don't care if I do.  Serve me right, selfish pig, to let
you go, and stay writing rubbish myself!" muttered Jo, as she went to
consult Hannah.

The good soul was wide awake in a minute, and took the lead at once,
assuring that there was no need to worry; every one had scarlet fever,
and if rightly treated, nobody died, all of which Jo believed, and felt
much relieved as they went up to call Meg.

"Now I'll tell you what we'll do," said Hannah, when she had examined
and questioned Beth, "we will have Dr. Bangs, just to take a look at
you, dear, and see that we start right.  Then we'll send Amy off to
Aunt March's for a spell, to keep her out of harm's way, and one of you
girls can stay at home and amuse Beth for a day or two."

"I shall stay, of course, I'm oldest," began Meg, looking anxious and
self-reproachful.

"I shall, because it's my fault she is sick.  I told Mother I'd do the
errands, and I haven't," said Jo decidedly.

"Which will you have, Beth?  There ain't no need of but one," aid
Hannah.

"Jo, please." And Beth leaned her head against her sister with a
contented look, which effectually settled that point.

"I'll go and tell Amy," said Meg, feeling a little hurt, yet rather
relieved on the whole, for she did not like nursing, and Jo did.

Amy rebelled outright, and passionately declared that she had rather
have the fever than go to Aunt March.  Meg reasoned, pleaded, and
commanded, all in vain.  Amy protested that she would not go, and Meg
left her in despair to ask Hannah what should be done.  Before she came
back, Laurie walked into the parlor to find Amy sobbing, with her head
in the sofa cushions.  She told her story, expecting to be consoled,
but Laurie only put his hands in his pockets and walked about the room,
whistling softly, as he knit his brows in deep thought.  Presently he
sat down beside her, and said, in his most wheedlesome tone, "Now be a
sensible little woman, and do as they say. No, don't cry, but hear what
a jolly plan I've got.  You go to Aunt March's, and I'll come and take
you out every day, driving or walking, and we'll have capital times.
Won't that be better than moping here?"

"I don't wish to be sent off as if I was in the way," began Amy, in an
injured voice.

"Bless your heart, child, it's to keep you well.  You don't want to be
sick, do you?"

"No, I'm sure I don't, but I dare say I shall be, for I've been with
Beth all the time."

"That's the very reason you ought to go away at once, so that you may
escape it.  Change of air and care will keep you well, I dare say, or
if it does not entirely, you will have the fever more lightly.  I
advise you to be off as soon as you can, for scarlet fever is no joke,
miss."

"But it's dull at Aunt March's, and she is so cross," said Amy, looking
rather frightened.

"It won't be dull with me popping in every day to tell you how Beth is,
and take you out gallivanting.  The old lady likes me, and I'll be as
sweet as possible to her, so she won't peck at us, whatever we do."

"Will you take me out in the trotting wagon with Puck?"

"On my honor as a gentleman."

"And come every single day?"

"See if I don't!"

"And bring me back the minute Beth is well?"

"The identical minute."

"And go to the theater, truly?"

"A dozen theaters, if we may."

"Well--I guess I will," said Amy slowly.

"Good girl!  Call Meg, and tell her you'll give in," said Laurie, with
an approving pat, which annoyed Amy more than the 'giving in'.

Meg and Jo came running down to behold the miracle which had been
wrought, and Amy, feeling very precious and self-sacrificing, promised
to go, if the doctor said Beth was going to be ill.

"How is the little dear?" asked Laurie, for Beth was his especial pet,
and he felt more anxious about her than he liked to show.

"She is lying down on Mother's bed, and feels better.  The baby's death
troubled her, but I dare say she has only got cold. Hannah says she
thinks so, but she looks worried, and that makes me fidgety," answered
Meg.

"What a trying world it is!" said Jo, rumpling up her hair in a fretful
way.  "No sooner do we get out of one trouble than down comes another.
There doesn't seem to be anything to hold on to when Mother's gone, so
I'm all at sea."

"Well, don't make a porcupine of yourself, it isn't becoming. Settle
your wig, Jo, and tell me if I shall telegraph to your mother, or do
anything?" asked Laurie, who never had been reconciled to the loss of
his friend's one beauty.

"That is what troubles me," said Meg.  "I think we ought to tell her if
Beth is really ill, but Hannah says we mustn't, for Mother can't leave
Father, and it will only make them anxious.  Beth won't be sick long,
and Hannah knows just what to do, and Mother said we were to mind her,
so I suppose we must, but it doesn't seem quite right to me."

"Hum, well, I can't say.  Suppose you ask Grandfather after the doctor
has been."

"We will.  Jo, go and get Dr. Bangs at once," commanded Meg. "We can't
decide anything till he has been."

"Stay where you are, Jo.  I'm errand boy to this establishment," said
Laurie, taking up his cap.

"I'm afraid you are busy," began Meg.

"No, I've done my lessons for the day."

"Do you study in vacation time?" asked Jo.

"I follow the good example my neighbors set me," was Laurie's answer,
as he swung himself out of the room.

"I have great hopes for my boy," observed Jo, watching him fly over the
fence with an approving smile.

"He does very well, for a boy," was Meg's somewhat ungracious answer,
for the subject did not interest her.

Dr. Bangs came, said Beth had symptoms of the fever, but he thought she
would have it lightly, though he looked sober over the Hummel story.
Amy was ordered off at once, and provided with something to ward off
danger, she departed in great state, with Jo and Laurie as escort.

Aunt March received them with her usual hospitality.

"What do you want now?" she asked, looking sharply over her spectacles,
while the parrot, sitting on the back of her chair, called out...

"Go away.  No boys allowed here."

Laurie retired to the window, and Jo told her story.

"No more than I expected, if you are allowed to go poking about among
poor folks.  Amy can stay and make herself useful if she isn't sick,
which I've no doubt she will be, looks like it now.  Don't cry, child,
it worries me to hear people sniff."

Amy was on the point of crying, but Laurie slyly pulled the parrot's
tail, which caused Polly to utter an astonished croak and call out,
"Bless my boots!" in such a funny way, that she laughed instead.

"What do you hear from your mother?" asked the old lady gruffly.

"Father is much better," replied Jo, trying to keep sober.

"Oh, is he?  Well, that won't last long, I fancy.  March never had any
stamina," was the cheerful reply.

"Ha, ha!  Never say die, take a pinch of snuff, goodbye, goodbye!"
squalled Polly, dancing on her perch, and clawing at the old lady's cap
as Laurie tweaked him in the rear.

"Hold your tongue, you disrespectful old bird!  And, Jo, you'd better
go at once.  It isn't proper to be gadding about so late with a
rattlepated boy like..."

"Hold your tongue, you disrespectful old bird!" cried Polly, tumbling
off the chair with a bounce, and running to peck the 'rattlepated' boy,
who was shaking with laughter at the last speech.

"I don't think I can bear it, but I'll try," thought Amy, as she was
left alone with Aunt March.

"Get along, you fright!" screamed Polly, and at that rude speech Amy
could not restrain a sniff.

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

completion: Little Faithful For a while, the girls are extremely diligent in their work, but they soon grow lazy again. Marmee had asked her daughters to visit the Hummels every day, but Beth is the only one who has done so. One day, Beth asks that another sister take a turn visiting the Hummels, but her sisters, wrapped up in their own pursuits, ignore her. Finally, when no one else will go, Beth goes again. When she returns home, she tells Jo that the Hummel baby has just died from scarlet fever. She says that she feels strange and fears that she might have the disease too. Luckily, Jo and Meg have had it already, so they are not in danger of contracting the illness if Beth does in fact have it. Hannah decides that Dr. Bangs should be sent for to look at Beth. He arrives and says that she shows symptoms of the disease. The family decides to send Amy to Aunt March's, since Amy is susceptible to scarlet fever, but she will not go until Laurie promises that he will come visit her every day. At Aunt March's, Amy is harassed by her aunt's speaking parrot and finds herself miserable


prompt:
Chapter: Beth did have the fever, and was much sicker than anyone but Hannah and
the doctor suspected.  The girls knew nothing about illness, and Mr.
Laurence was not allowed to see her, so Hannah had everything her own
way, and busy Dr. Bangs did his best, but left a good deal to the
excellent nurse.  Meg stayed at home, lest she should infect the Kings,
and kept house, feeling very anxious and a little guilty when she wrote
letters in which no mention was made of Beth's illness.  She could not
think it right to deceive her mother, but she had been bidden to mind
Hannah, and Hannah wouldn't hear of 'Mrs. March bein' told, and worried
just for sech a trifle.'

Jo devoted herself to Beth day and night, not a hard task, for Beth was
very patient, and bore her pain uncomplainingly as long as she could
control herself.  But there came a time when during the fever fits she
began to talk in a hoarse, broken voice, to play on the coverlet as if
on her beloved little piano, and try to sing with a throat so swollen
that there was no music left, a time when she did not know the familiar
faces around her, but addressed them by wrong names, and called
imploringly for her mother.  Then Jo grew frightened, Meg begged to be
allowed to write the truth, and even Hannah said she 'would think of
it, though there was no danger yet'.  A letter from Washington added to
their trouble, for Mr. March had had a relapse, and could not think of
coming home for a long while.

How dark the days seemed now, how sad and lonely the house, and how
heavy were the hearts of the sisters as they worked and waited, while
the shadow of death hovered over the once happy home. Then it was that
Margaret, sitting alone with tears dropping often on her work, felt how
rich she had been in things more precious than any luxuries money could
buy--in love, protection, peace, and health, the real blessings of
life.  Then it was that Jo, living in the darkened room, with that
suffering little sister always before her eyes and that pathetic voice
sounding in her ears, learned to see the beauty and the sweetness of
Beth's nature, to feel how deep and tender a place she filled in all
hearts, and to acknowledge the worth of Beth's unselfish ambition to
live for others, and make home happy by that exercise of those simple
virtues which all may possess, and which all should love and value more
than talent, wealth, or beauty.  And Amy, in her exile, longed eagerly
to be at home, that she might work for Beth, feeling now that no
service would be hard or irksome, and remembering, with regretful
grief, how many neglected tasks those willing hands had done for her.
Laurie haunted the house like a restless ghost, and Mr. Laurence locked
the grand piano, because he could not bear to be reminded of the young
neighbor who used to make the twilight pleasant for him.  Everyone
missed Beth.  The milkman, baker, grocer, and butcher inquired how she
did, poor Mrs. Hummel came to beg pardon for her thoughtlessness and to
get a shroud for Minna, the neighbors sent all sorts of comforts and
good wishes, and even those who knew her best were surprised to find
how many friends shy little Beth had made.

Meanwhile she lay on her bed with old Joanna at her side, for even in
her wanderings she did not forget her forlorn protege.  She longed for
her cats, but would not have them brought, lest they should get sick,
and in her quiet hours she was full of anxiety about Jo.  She sent
loving messages to Amy, bade them tell her mother that she would write
soon, and often begged for pencil and paper to try to say a word, that
Father might not think she had neglected him. But soon even these
intervals of consciousness ended, and she lay hour after hour, tossing
to and fro, with incoherent words on her lips, or sank into a heavy
sleep which brought her no refreshment. Dr. Bangs came twice a day,
Hannah sat up at night, Meg kept a telegram in her desk all ready to
send off at any minute, and Jo never stirred from Beth's side.

The first of December was a wintry day indeed to them, for a bitter
wind blew, snow fell fast, and the year seemed getting ready for its
death.  When Dr. Bangs came that morning, he looked long at Beth, held
the hot hand in both his own for a minute, and laid it gently down,
saying, in a low voice to Hannah, "If Mrs. March can leave her husband
she'd better be sent for."

Hannah nodded without speaking, for her lips twitched nervously, Meg
dropped down into a chair as the strength seemed to go out of her limbs
at the sound of those words, and Jo, standing with a pale face for a
minute, ran to the parlor, snatched up the telegram, and throwing on
her things, rushed out into the storm.  She was soon back, and while
noiselessly taking off her cloak, Laurie came in with a letter, saying
that Mr. March was mending again.  Jo read it thankfully, but the heavy
weight did not seem lifted off her heart, and her face was so full of
misery that Laurie asked quickly, "What is it?  Is Beth worse?"

"I've sent for Mother," said Jo, tugging at her rubber boots with a
tragic expression.

"Good for you, Jo!  Did you do it on your own responsibility?" asked
Laurie, as he seated her in the hall chair and took off the rebellious
boots, seeing how her hands shook.

"No.  The doctor told us to."

"Oh, Jo, it's not so bad as that?" cried Laurie, with a startled face.

"Yes, it is.  She doesn't know us, she doesn't even talk about the
flocks of green doves, as she calls the vine leaves on the wall. She
doesn't look like my Beth, and there's nobody to help us bear it.
Mother and father both gone, and God seems so far away I can't find
Him."

As the tears streamed fast down poor Jo's cheeks, she stretched out her
hand in a helpless sort of way, as if groping in the dark, and Laurie
took it in his, whispering as well as he could with a lump in his
throat, "I'm here.  Hold on to me, Jo, dear!"

She could not speak, but she did 'hold on', and the warm grasp of the
friendly human hand comforted her sore heart, and seemed to lead her
nearer to the Divine arm which alone could uphold her in her trouble.

Laurie longed to say something tender and comfortable, but no fitting
words came to him, so he stood silent, gently stroking her bent head as
her mother used to do.  It was the best thing he could have done, far
more soothing than the most eloquent words, for Jo felt the unspoken
sympathy, and in the silence learned the sweet solace which affection
administers to sorrow.  Soon she dried the tears which had relieved
her, and looked up with a grateful face.

"Thank you, Teddy, I'm better now.  I don't feel so forlorn, and will
try to bear it if it comes."

"Keep hoping for the best, that will help you, Jo.  Soon your mother
will be here, and then everything will be all right."

"I'm so glad Father is better.  Now she won't feel so bad about leaving
him.  Oh, me!  It does seem as if all the troubles came in a heap, and
I got the heaviest part on my shoulders," sighed Jo, spreading her wet
handkerchief over her knees to dry.

"Doesn't Meg pull fair?" asked Laurie, looking indignant.

"Oh, yes, she tries to, but she can't love Bethy as I do, and she won't
miss her as I shall.  Beth is my conscience, and I can't give her up.
I can't!  I can't!"

Down went Jo's face into the wet handkerchief, and she cried
despairingly, for she had kept up bravely till now and never shed a
tear.  Laurie drew his hand across his eyes, but could not speak till
he had subdued the choky feeling in his throat and steadied his lips.
It might be unmanly, but he couldn't help it, and I am glad of it.
Presently, as Jo's sobs quieted, he said hopefully, "I don't think she
will die.  She's so good, and we all love her so much, I don't believe
God will take her away yet."

"The good and dear people always do die," groaned Jo, but she stopped
crying, for her friend's words cheered her up in spite of her own
doubts and fears.

"Poor girl, you're worn out.  It isn't like you to be forlorn. Stop a
bit.  I'll hearten you up in a jiffy."

Laurie went off two stairs at a time, and Jo laid her wearied head down
on Beth's little brown hood, which no one had thought of moving from
the table where she left it.  It must have possessed some magic, for
the submissive spirit of its gentle owner seemed to enter into Jo, and
when Laurie came running down with a glass of wine, she took it with a
smile, and said bravely, "I drink-- Health to my Beth!  You are a good
doctor, Teddy, and such a comfortable friend.  How can I ever pay you?"
she added, as the wine refreshed her body, as the kind words had done
her troubled mind.

"I'll send my bill, by-and-by, and tonight I'll give you something that
will warm the cockles of your heart better than quarts of wine," said
Laurie, beaming at her with a face of suppressed satisfaction at
something.

"What is it?" cried Jo, forgetting her woes for a minute in her wonder.

"I telegraphed to your mother yesterday, and Brooke answered she'd come
at once, and she'll be here tonight, and everything will be all right.
Aren't you glad I did it?"

Laurie spoke very fast, and turned red and excited all in a minute, for
he had kept his plot a secret, for fear of disappointing the girls or
harming Beth.  Jo grew quite white, flew out of her chair, and the
moment he stopped speaking she electrified him by throwing her arms
round his neck, and crying out, with a joyful cry, "Oh, Laurie!  Oh,
Mother!  I am so glad!"  She did not weep again, but laughed
hysterically, and trembled and clung to her friend as if she was a
little bewildered by the sudden news.

Laurie, though decidedly amazed, behaved with great presence of mind.
He patted her back soothingly, and finding that she was recovering,
followed it up by a bashful kiss or two, which brought Jo round at
once.  Holding on to the banisters, she put him gently away, saying
breathlessly, "Oh, don't!  I didn't mean to, it was dreadful of me, but
you were such a dear to go and do it in spite of Hannah that I couldn't
help flying at you.  Tell me all about it, and don't give me wine
again, it makes me act so."

"I don't mind," laughed Laurie, as he settled his tie.  "Why, you see I
got fidgety, and so did Grandpa.  We thought Hannah was overdoing the
authority business, and your mother ought to know. She'd never forgive
us if Beth...  Well, if anything happened, you know.  So I got grandpa
to say it was high time we did something, and off I pelted to the
office yesterday, for the doctor looked sober, and Hannah most took my
head off when I proposed a telegram.  I never can bear to be 'lorded
over', so that settled my mind, and I did it. Your mother will come, I
know, and the late train is in at two A.M. I shall go for her, and
you've only got to bottle up your rapture, and keep Beth quiet till
that blessed lady gets here."

"Laurie, you're an angel!  How shall I ever thank you?"

"Fly at me again.  I rather liked it," said Laurie, looking
mischievous, a thing he had not done for a fortnight.

"No, thank you.  I'll do it by proxy, when your grandpa comes. Don't
tease, but go home and rest, for you'll be up half the night. Bless
you, Teddy, bless you!"

Jo had backed into a corner, and as she finished her speech, she
vanished precipitately into the kitchen, where she sat down upon a
dresser and told the assembled cats that she was "happy, oh, so happy!"
while Laurie departed, feeling that he had made a rather neat thing of
it.

"That's the interferingest chap I ever see, but I forgive him and do
hope Mrs. March is coming right away," said Hannah, with an air of
relief, when Jo told the good news.

Meg had a quiet rapture, and then brooded over the letter, while Jo set
the sickroom in order, and Hannah "knocked up a couple of pies in case
of company unexpected".  A breath of fresh air seemed to blow through
the house, and something better than sunshine brightened the quiet
rooms.  Everything appeared to feel the hopeful change.  Beth's bird
began to chirp again, and a half-blown rose was discovered on Amy's
bush in the window. The fires seemed to burn with unusual cheeriness,
and every time the girls met, their pale faces broke into smiles as
they hugged one another, whispering encouragingly, "Mother's coming,
dear! Mother's coming!"  Every one rejoiced but Beth.  She lay in that
heavy stupor, alike unconscious of hope and joy, doubt and danger. It
was a piteous sight, the once rosy face so changed and vacant, the once
busy hands so weak and wasted, the once smiling lips quite dumb, and
the once pretty, well-kept hair scattered rough and tangled on the
pillow.  All day she lay so, only rousing now and then to mutter,
"Water!" with lips so parched they could hardly shape the word.  All
day Jo and Meg hovered over her, watching, waiting, hoping, and
trusting in God and Mother, and all day the snow fell, the bitter wind
raged, and the hours dragged slowly by.  But night came at last, and
every time the clock struck, the sisters, still sitting on either side
of the bed, looked at each other with brightening eyes, for each hour
brought help nearer.  The doctor had been in to say that some change,
for better or worse, would probably take place about midnight, at which
time he would return.

Hannah, quite worn out, lay down on the sofa at the bed's foot and fell
fast asleep, Mr. Laurence marched to and fro in the parlor, feeling
that he would rather face a rebel battery than Mrs. March's countenance
as she entered.  Laurie lay on the rug, pretending to rest, but staring
into the fire with the thoughtful look which made his black eyes
beautifully soft and clear.

The girls never forgot that night, for no sleep came to them as they
kept their watch, with that dreadful sense of powerlessness which comes
to us in hours like those.

"If God spares Beth, I never will complain again," whispered Meg
earnestly.

"If god spares Beth, I'll try to love and serve Him all my life,"
answered Jo, with equal fervor.

"I wish I had no heart, it aches so," sighed Meg, after a pause.

"If life is often as hard as this, I don't see how we ever shall get
through it," added her sister despondently.

Here the clock struck twelve, and both forgot themselves in watching
Beth, for they fancied a change passed over her wan face. The house was
still as death, and nothing but the wailing of the wind broke the deep
hush.  Weary Hannah slept on, and no one but the sisters saw the pale
shadow which seemed to fall upon the little bed.  An hour went by, and
nothing happened except Laurie's quiet departure for the station.
Another hour, still no one came, and anxious fears of delay in the
storm, or accidents by the way, or, worst of all, a great grief at
Washington, haunted the girls.

It was past two, when Jo, who stood at the window thinking how dreary
the world looked in its winding sheet of snow, heard a movement by the
bed, and turning quickly, saw Meg kneeling before their mother's easy
chair with her face hidden.  A dreadful fear passed coldly over Jo, as
she thought, "Beth is dead, and Meg is afraid to tell me."

She was back at her post in an instant, and to her excited eyes a great
change seemed to have taken place.  The fever flush and the look of
pain were gone, and the beloved little face looked so pale and peaceful
in its utter repose that Jo felt no desire to weep or to lament.
Leaning low over this dearest of her sisters, she kissed the damp
forehead with her heart on her lips, and softly whispered, "Good-by, my
Beth.  Good-by!"

As if awaked by the stir, Hannah started out of her sleep, hurried to
the bed, looked at Beth, felt her hands, listened at her lips, and
then, throwing her apron over her head, sat down to rock to and fro,
exclaiming, under her breath, "The fever's turned, she's sleepin'
nat'ral, her skin's damp, and she breathes easy.  Praise be given!  Oh,
my goodness me!"

Before the girls could believe the happy truth, the doctor came to
confirm it.  He was a homely man, but they thought his face quite
heavenly when he smiled and said, with a fatherly look at them, "Yes,
my dears, I think the little girl will pull through this time.  Keep
the house quiet, let her sleep, and when she wakes, give her..."

What they were to give, neither heard, for both crept into the dark
hall, and, sitting on the stairs, held each other close, rejoicing with
hearts too full for words.  When they went back to be kissed and
cuddled by faithful Hannah, they found Beth lying, as she used to do,
with her cheek pillowed on her hand, the dreadful pallor gone, and
breathing quietly, as if just fallen asleep.

"If Mother would only come now!" said Jo, as the winter night began to
wane.

"See," said Meg, coming up with a white, half-opened rose, "I thought
this would hardly be ready to lay in Beth's hand tomorrow if she--went
away from us.  But it has blossomed in the night, and now I mean to put
it in my vase here, so that when the darling wakes, the first thing she
sees will be the little rose, and Mother's face."

Never had the sun risen so beautifully, and never had the world seemed
so lovely as it did to the heavy eyes of Meg and Jo, as they looked out
in the early morning, when their long, sad vigil was done.

"It looks like a fairy world," said Meg, smiling to herself, as she
stood behind the curtain, watching the dazzling sight.

"Hark!" cried Jo, starting to her feet.

Yes, there was a sound of bells at the door below, a cry from Hannah,
and then Laurie's voice saying in a joyful whisper, "Girls, she's come!
She's come!"

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

completion: Dark Days Beth is much more seriously ill than anyone supposed. After a while, the family decides that Marmee must be sent for, just in case something dreadful happens. Jo breaks down in front of Laurie, saying that she does not want Beth to die. Laurie admits that he telegraphed for Marmee the day before and that she will be arriving that night. Around two in the morning, Jo and Meg notice a change in Beth: the fever and pained look are gone. Jo whispers goodbye to her sister. Hannah, however, announces that the fever has broken. Beth is not dying but rather recovering. The doctor confirms the good news, and Marmee arrives