prompt:
Chapter: XLI. LEARNING TO FORGET.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Laurie did not utter the words, but he thought them; and the next
instant kissed the little old ring, saying to himself,--

"No, I won't! I haven't forgotten, I never can. I'll try again, and if
that fails, why, then--"

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

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

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

     [Illustration: Turning the ring thoughtfully upon his finger]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

          [Illustration: O Laurie, Laurie, I knew you'd come]

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

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

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

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

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

"Not if you want me, dear."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

               [Illustration: How well we pull together]

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

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

"Yes, Laurie," very low.

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

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

completion: Learning to Forget Amy's lecture did make Laurie realize that he had been lazy and selfish. He goes to Vienna to try to earn Jo's respect, if not her love, by writing a Requiem or an opera. He finds, though, that tomboy Jo makes a difficult heroine, and instead uses memories of Amy as his model. Yet after attending an opera by Mozart, Laurie agrees with Amy that talent is not genius, becomes humble, and accepts that he will not be a great musician. Having given up his dream, he wonders what to do next. During this time, he finds himself forgetting his romantic love of Jo, feeling only a brotherly warmth toward her, despite all his sincerest intentions to love her all his life. He writes her to ask, one last time, if she will have him, and her response confirms that she never will. She urges Laurie to attend to Amy, for whom it is difficult to be far from home with Beth so sick. After finally saying goodbye to his love for Jo, Laurie begins a correspondence with Amy, who is indeed homesick, and they write to one another often. Laurie leaves Vienna and goes to Paris, hoping that Amy will ask him to visit Nice. Amy wishes to see Laurie, but does not invite him, for Fred Vaughn has returned. Troubled by Laurie's view of her potential engagement, and her own misgivings, Amy found herself declining Fred's offer, to her own surprise. She enjoys writing to Laurie very much, both of them cherishing each other's letters in ways they feel are brotherly and sisterly, but are truly romantic. Laurie is relieved to know that Fred has gone to Egypt, understanding that Amy turned him down. Amy is in Vevey with the Carrols when she learns that Beth has died. Laurie goes to her right away, and finds her sitting in a garden, a rare chance to see Amy's tender side. Amy runs to Laurie when she sees him, and as they embrace, both feel the truth, that they love each other, but they do not speak of it. They are great comforts to each other in this sorrowful time, and Aunt Carrol discretely encourages the match. Laurie and Amy are very active in Vevey, and Amy admires the change wrought in him. Laurie feels guilty at first for replacing Jo with Amy, but he feels his new love is genuine, and waits for the time to say something. That time comes when they are rowing together on a lake, very simply and beautifully, and Amy accepts


prompt:
Chapter: XLII. ALL ALONE.

It was easy to promise self-abnegation when self was wrapped up in
another, and heart and soul were purified by a sweet example; but when
the helpful voice was silent, the daily lesson over, the beloved
presence gone, and nothing remained but loneliness and grief, then Jo
found her promise very hard to keep. How could she "comfort father and
mother," when her own heart ached with a ceaseless longing for her
sister; how could she "make the house cheerful," when all its light and
warmth and beauty seemed to have deserted it when Beth left the old home
for the new; and where in all the world could she "find some useful,
happy work to do," that would take the place of the loving service which
had been its own reward? She tried in a blind, hopeless way to do her
duty, secretly rebelling against it all the while, for it seemed unjust
that her few joys should be lessened, her burdens made heavier, and life
get harder and harder as she toiled along. Some people seemed to get all
sunshine, and some all shadow; it was not fair, for she tried more than
Amy to be good, but never got any reward, only disappointment, trouble,
and hard work.

Poor Jo, these were dark days to her, for something like despair came
over her when she thought of spending all her life in that quiet house,
devoted to humdrum cares, a few small pleasures, and the duty that never
seemed to grow any easier. "I can't do it. I wasn't meant for a life
like this, and I know I shall break away and do something desperate if
somebody don't come and help me," she said to herself, when her first
efforts failed, and she fell into the moody, miserable state of mind
which often comes when strong wills have to yield to the inevitable.

But some one did come and help her, though Jo did not recognize her good
angels at once, because they wore familiar shapes, and used the simple
spells best fitted to poor humanity. Often she started up at night,
thinking Beth called her; and when the sight of the little empty bed
made her cry with the bitter cry of an unsubmissive sorrow, "O Beth,
come back! come back!" she did not stretch out her yearning arms in
vain; for, as quick to hear her sobbing as she had been to hear her
sister's faintest whisper, her mother came to comfort her, not with
words only, but the patient tenderness that soothes by a touch, tears
that were mute reminders of a greater grief than Jo's, and broken
whispers, more eloquent than prayers, because hopeful resignation went
hand-in-hand with natural sorrow. Sacred moments, when heart talked to
heart in the silence of the night, turning affliction to a blessing,
which chastened grief and strengthened love. Feeling this, Jo's burden
seemed easier to bear, duty grew sweeter, and life looked more
endurable, seen from the safe shelter of her mother's arms.

When aching heart was a little comforted, troubled mind likewise found
help; for one day she went to the study, and, leaning over the good gray
head lifted to welcome her with a tranquil smile, she said, very
humbly,--

"Father, talk to me as you did to Beth. I need it more than she did, for
I'm all wrong."

"My dear, nothing can comfort me like this," he answered, with a falter
in his voice, and both arms round her, as if he, too, needed help, and
did not fear to ask it.

                   [Illustration: Jo and her father]

Then, sitting in Beth's little chair close beside him, Jo told her
troubles,--the resentful sorrow for her loss, the fruitless efforts that
discouraged her, the want of faith that made life look so dark, and all
the sad bewilderment which we call despair. She gave him entire
confidence, he gave her the help she needed, and both found consolation
in the act; for the time had come when they could talk together not only
as father and daughter, but as man and woman, able and glad to serve
each other with mutual sympathy as well as mutual love. Happy,
thoughtful times there in the old study which Jo called "the church of
one member," and from which she came with fresh courage, recovered
cheerfulness, and a more submissive spirit; for the parents who had
taught one child to meet death without fear, were trying now to teach
another to accept life without despondency or distrust, and to use its
beautiful opportunities with gratitude and power.

Other helps had Jo,--humble, wholesome duties and delights that would
not be denied their part in serving her, and which she slowly learned to
see and value. Brooms and dishcloths never could be as distasteful as
they once had been, for Beth had presided over both; and something of
her housewifely spirit seemed to linger round the little mop and the old
brush, that was never thrown away. As she used them, Jo found herself
humming the songs Beth used to hum, imitating Beth's orderly ways, and
giving the little touches here and there that kept everything fresh and
cosey, which was the first step toward making home happy, though she
didn't know it, till Hannah said with an approving squeeze of the
hand,--

"You thoughtful creter, you're determined we sha'n't miss that dear lamb
ef you can help it. We don't say much, but we see it, and the Lord will
bless you for't, see ef He don't."

As they sat sewing together, Jo discovered how much improved her sister
Meg was; how well she could talk, how much she knew about good, womanly
impulses, thoughts, and feelings, how happy she was in husband and
children, and how much they were all doing for each other.

"Marriage is an excellent thing, after all. I wonder if I should blossom
out half as well as you have, if I tried it?" said Jo, as she
constructed a kite for Demi, in the topsy-turvy nursery.

"It's just what you need to bring out the tender, womanly half of your
nature, Jo. You are like a chestnut-burr, prickly outside, but
silky-soft within, and a sweet kernel, if one can only get at it. Love
will make you show your heart some day, and then the rough burr will
fall off."

"Frost opens chestnut-burrs, ma'am, and it takes a good shake to bring
them down. Boys go nutting, and I don't care to be bagged by them,"
returned Jo, pasting away at the kite which no wind that blows would
ever carry up, for Daisy had tied herself on as a bob.

Meg laughed, for she was glad to see a glimmer of Jo's old spirit, but
she felt it her duty to enforce her opinion by every argument in her
power; and the sisterly chats were not wasted, especially as two of
Meg's most effective arguments were the babies, whom Jo loved tenderly.
Grief is the best opener for some hearts, and Jo's was nearly ready for
the bag: a little more sunshine to ripen the nut, then, not a boy's
impatient shake, but a man's hand reached up to pick it gently from the
burr, and find the kernel sound and sweet. If she had suspected this,
she would have shut up tight, and been more prickly than ever;
fortunately she wasn't thinking about herself, so, when the time came,
down she dropped.

Now, if she had been the heroine of a moral story-book, she ought at
this period of her life to have become quite saintly, renounced the
world, and gone about doing good in a mortified bonnet, with tracts in
her pocket. But, you see, Jo wasn't a heroine; she was only a struggling
human girl, like hundreds of others, and she just acted out her nature,
being sad, cross, listless, or energetic, as the mood suggested. It's
highly virtuous to say we'll be good, but we can't do it all at once,
and it takes a long pull, a strong pull, and a pull all together,
before some of us even get our feet set in the right way. Jo had got so
far, she was learning to do her duty, and to feel unhappy if she did
not; but to do it cheerfully--ah, that was another thing! She had often
said she wanted to do something splendid, no matter how hard; and now
she had her wish, for what could be more beautiful than to devote her
life to father and mother, trying to make home as happy to them as they
had to her? And, if difficulties were necessary to increase the splendor
of the effort, what could be harder for a restless, ambitious girl than
to give up her own hopes, plans, and desires, and cheerfully live for
others?

Providence had taken her at her word; here was the task, not what she
had expected, but better, because self had no part in it: now, could she
do it? She decided that she would try; and, in her first attempt, she
found the helps I have suggested. Still another was given her, and she
took it, not as a reward, but as a comfort, as Christian took the
refreshment afforded by the little arbor where he rested, as he climbed
the hill called Difficulty.

"Why don't you write? That always used to make you happy," said her
mother, once, when the desponding fit overshadowed Jo.

"I've no heart to write, and if I had, nobody cares for my things."

"We do; write something for us, and never mind the rest of the world.
Try it, dear; I'm sure it would do you good, and please us very much."

"Don't believe I can;" but Jo got out her desk, and began to overhaul
her half-finished manuscripts.

An hour afterward her mother peeped in, and there she was, scratching
away, with her black pinafore on, and an absorbed expression, which
caused Mrs. March to smile, and slip away, well pleased with the success
of her suggestion. Jo never knew how it happened, but something got into
that story that went straight to the hearts of those who read it; for,
when her family had laughed and cried over it, her father sent it, much
against her will, to one of the popular magazines, and, to her utter
surprise, it was not only paid for, but others requested. Letters from
several persons, whose praise was honor, followed the appearance of the
little story, newspapers copied it, and strangers as well as friends
admired it. For a small thing it was a great success; and Jo was more
astonished than when her novel was commended and condemned all at once.

"I don't understand it. What _can_ there be in a simple little story
like that, to make people praise it so?" she said, quite bewildered.

"There is truth in it, Jo, that's the secret; humor and pathos make it
alive, and you have found your style at last. You wrote with no thought
of fame or money, and put your heart into it, my daughter; you have had
the bitter, now comes the sweet. Do your best, and grow as happy as we
are in your success."

"If there _is_ anything good or true in what I write, it isn't mine; I
owe it all to you and mother and to Beth," said Jo, more touched by her
father's words than by any amount of praise from the world.

So, taught by love and sorrow, Jo wrote her little stories, and sent
them away to make friends for themselves and her, finding it a very
charitable world to such humble wanderers; for they were kindly
welcomed, and sent home comfortable tokens to their mother, like dutiful
children whom good fortune overtakes.

When Amy and Laurie wrote of their engagement, Mrs. March feared that Jo
would find it difficult to rejoice over it, but her fears were soon set
at rest; for, though Jo looked grave at first, she took it very quietly,
and was full of hopes and plans for "the children" before she read the
letter twice. It was a sort of written duet, wherein each glorified the
other in lover-like fashion, very pleasant to read and satisfactory to
think of, for no one had any objection to make.

"You like it, mother?" said Jo, as they laid down the closely written
sheets, and looked at one another.

"Yes, I hoped it would be so, ever since Amy wrote that she had refused
Fred. I felt sure then that something better than what you call the
'mercenary spirit' had come over her, and a hint here and there in her
letters made me suspect that love and Laurie would win the day."

"How sharp you are, Marmee, and how silent! You never said a word to
me."

"Mothers have need of sharp eyes and discreet tongues when they have
girls to manage. I was half afraid to put the idea into your head, lest
you should write and congratulate them before the thing was settled."

"I'm not the scatter-brain I was; you may trust me, I'm sober and
sensible enough for any one's _confidante_ now."

"So you are, dear, and I should have made you mine, only I fancied it
might pain you to learn that your Teddy loved any one else."

"Now, mother, did you really think I could be so silly and selfish,
after I'd refused his love, when it was freshest, if not best?"

"I knew you were sincere then, Jo, but lately I have thought that if he
came back, and asked again, you might, perhaps, feel like giving another
answer. Forgive me, dear, I can't help seeing that you are very lonely,
and sometimes there is a hungry look in your eyes that goes to my heart;
so I fancied that your boy might fill the empty place if he tried now."

"No, mother, it is better as it is, and I'm glad Amy has learned to love
him. But you are right in one thing: I _am_ lonely, and perhaps if Teddy
had tried again, I might have said 'Yes,' not because I love him any
more, but because I care more to be loved than when he went away."

"I'm glad of that, Jo, for it shows that you are getting on. There are
plenty to love you, so try to be satisfied with father and mother,
sisters and brothers, friends and babies, till the best lover of all
comes to give you your reward."

"Mothers are the _best_ lovers in the world; but I don't mind whispering
to Marmee that I'd like to try all kinds. It's very curious, but the
more I try to satisfy myself with all sorts of natural affections, the
more I seem to want. I'd no idea hearts could take in so many; mine is
so elastic, it never seems full now, and I used to be quite contented
with my family. I don't understand it."

"I do;" and Mrs. March smiled her wise smile, as Jo turned back the
leaves to read what Amy said of Laurie.

"It is so beautiful to be loved as Laurie loves me; he isn't
sentimental, doesn't say much about it, but I see and feel it in all he
says and does, and it makes me so happy and so humble that I don't seem
to be the same girl I was. I never knew how good and generous and tender
he was till now, for he lets me read his heart, and I find it full of
noble impulses and hopes and purposes, and am so proud to know it's
mine. He says he feels as if he 'could make a prosperous voyage now
with me aboard as mate, and lots of love for ballast.' I pray he may,
and try to be all he believes me, for I love my gallant captain with all
my heart and soul and might, and never will desert him, while God lets
us be together. O mother, I never knew how much like heaven this world
could be, when two people love and live for one another!"

"And that's our cool, reserved, and worldly Amy! Truly, love does work
miracles. How very, very happy they must be!" And Jo laid the rustling
sheets together with a careful hand, as one might shut the covers of a
lovely romance, which holds the reader fast till the end comes, and he
finds himself alone in the work-a-day world again.

By and by Jo roamed away upstairs, for it was rainy, and she could not
walk. A restless spirit possessed her, and the old feeling came again,
not bitter as it once was, but a sorrowfully patient wonder why one
sister should have all she asked, the other nothing. It was not true;
she knew that, and tried to put it away, but the natural craving for
affection was strong, and Amy's happiness woke the hungry longing for
some one to "love with heart and soul, and cling to while God let them
be together."

Up in the garret, where Jo's unquiet wanderings ended, stood four little
wooden chests in a row, each marked with its owner's name, and each
filled with relics of the childhood and girlhood ended now for all. Jo
glanced into them, and when she came to her own, leaned her chin on the
edge, and stared absently at the chaotic collection, till a bundle of
old exercise-books caught her eye. She drew them out, turned them over,
and re-lived that pleasant winter at kind Mrs. Kirke's. She had smiled
at first, then she looked thoughtful, next sad, and when she came to a
little message written in the Professor's hand, her lips began to
tremble, the books slid out of her lap, and she sat looking at the
friendly words, as if they took a new meaning, and touched a tender spot
in her heart.

"Wait for me, my friend. I may be a little late, but I shall surely
come."

"Oh, if he only would! So kind, so good, so patient with me always; my
dear old Fritz, I didn't value him half enough when I had him, but now
how I should love to see him, for every one seems going away from me,
and I'm all alone."

And holding the little paper fast, as if it were a promise yet to be
fulfilled, Jo laid her head down on a comfortable rag-bag, and cried, as
if in opposition to the rain pattering on the roof.

  [Illustration: Jo laid her head on a comfortable rag-bag and cried]

Was it all self-pity, loneliness, or low spirits? or was it the waking
up of a sentiment which had bided its time as patiently as its inspirer?
Who shall say?

     [Illustration: A substantial lifelike ghost leaning over her]

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

completion: All Alone Despite her preparation, Jo is devastated at losing Beth, and feels despair at spending life attending only to household worries. She is comforted by her Mother, who shares her sorrow, and by her Father, whose ministry and counsel she seeks out. Through her work she tries to adopt Beth's spirit of cheerful housekeeping, taking care to make home cozy and comfortable. Jo sees how improved Meg is through her marriage, particularly her children, and wonders if it might in fact be enjoyable for her. In the meantime, Mother suggests writing as a way for Jo to find more joy. Jo is wary, but finds herself writing a simple story that is greatly received by family, then friends, and even newspapers. Jo wonders at her success, but Father explains that rather than writing for money, Jo is simply writing the truth, with a direct simplicity that speaks to people's hearts. When Laurie and Amy write of their engagement, Jo is genuinely happy for them, but begins to wish to find the love and joy they have. She wanders to the garret, where she comes across reminders of her winter in New York and Mr. Bhaer's friendship, and wishes to see him again


prompt:
Chapter: XLIII. SURPRISES.

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

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

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

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

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

        "She could not think it he,"

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

"O my Teddy! O my Teddy!"

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

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

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

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

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

"You've gone and got married!"

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

"Actually married?"

"Very much so, thank you."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What does Amy call you?"

"My lord."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How did you ever get aunt to agree?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Like angels!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

        "Earth hath no sorrow that heaven cannot heal;"

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

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

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

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

                [Illustration: Mr. Bhaer sang heartily]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

completion: Surprises The day before her twenty-fifth birthday, Jo laments that she will be a literary spinster. The narrator here urges readers to be kind and respectful to spinsters, as there is tragedy and sacrifice often in their histories, and remember the kindnesses that countless Aunts have shown them. Jo is surprised out of her reverie by Laurie, who has returned from abroad with Amy. They are awkward for a moment, but they are delighted to see each other and rekindle their exuberant friendship, and Laurie lets slip that he and Amy had gotten married, so that she could accompany him and Grandfather back home while the Carrols stayed another year abroad. Laurie explains to Jo that he does still love her, as a brother, and that it would have all come about naturally if he had been sensible and not proposed, as Jo urged. He asks if they can go back to being best friends as they were, and Jo assures him that they can be friends, but now as man and woman, and not as children as they were before. Having Laurie nearby is a great cheer to Jo, and when the entire family troops in, joy is plentiful all around, with gentle sad reminders of dear Beth, as when Mr. Laurence asks Jo to be his girl now. After tea, the party goes upstairs, leaving Jo to feel lonely again just for a moment, when there is a knock at the door, and she finds Mr. Bhaer has come to visit. She invites him in and proudly introduces him to the family, where is he is a quick favorite. Mr. Bhaer and Father are kindred spirits, the babies enjoy his pockets of treats, and even Laurie overcomes his brotherly suspicion of the man's intentions. Mr. Bhaer looks wistfully and Laurie and occasionally at Jo, until he learns that Laurie has married Amy, to his delight. The evening ends with Amy leading them through Beth's old songs, and Mr. Bhaer and Jo singing a duet. Mr. Bhaer promises to come again, for he has business in town, and all pronounce their approval of him


prompt:
Chapter: XLIV. MY LORD AND LADY.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Mrs. Laurence."

"My lord!"

"That man intends to marry our Jo!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"May I ask you a question, dear?"

"Of course you may."

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

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

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

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

             [Illustration: They began to pace up and down]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                       [Illustration: Tail-piece]

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

completion: My Lord and Lady Laurie and Amy discuss the potential of Mr. Bhaer marrying Jo, and wish they could help his poverty without hurting their pride. Laurie reassures Amy that he will be fully glad for Jo, without remorse, and Amy reassures Laurie that she would have married him if he were a pauper. They lament that there are girls who do marry for money, and gentleman and ladies who are ambitious but poor, to proud to ask for help. They commit to sharing their blessings with others less fortunate, particularly young women with artistic talents, and feel their love strengthened by their wish to share it