prompt:
Chapter: XV. A TELEGRAM.

  [Illustration: November is the most disagreeable month in the year]

"November is the most disagreeable month in the whole year," said
Margaret, standing at the window one dull afternoon, looking out at the
frost-bitten garden.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Of course we will."

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

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

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

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

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

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

          [Illustration: One of them horrid telegraph things]

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

    "MRS. MARCH:

    "Your husband is very ill. Come at once.
                           "S. HALE,
                "Blank Hospital, Washington"

How still the room was as they listened breathlessly, how strangely the
day darkened outside, and how suddenly the whole world seemed to change,
as the girls gathered about their mother, feeling as if all the
happiness and support of their lives was about to be taken from them.
Mrs. March was herself again directly; read the message over, and
stretched out her arms to her daughters, saying, in a tone they never
forgot, "I shall go at once, but it may be too late. O children,
children, help me to bear it!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

           [Illustration: She came suddenly upon Mr. Brooke]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"'Take it, Thomas, and oblige the young lady; I'd do as much for our
Jimmy any day if I had a spire of hair worth selling.'"

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

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

                    [Illustration: The man clipped]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No, not now."

"What then?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What did you think of?"

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

"What color do you like best?"

"Brown--that is, sometimes; blue are lovely."

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

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

                       [Illustration: Tail-piece]

                        [Illustration: Letters]

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

completion: One frosty November afternoon, the March girls are sitting at home. Meg is feeling especially bitter about being poor and having to work hard. Jo and Amy try to comfort her and say they are going to make their fortunes as an author and an artist, but Meg says she doesn't have any faith in that plan. Beth tries to comfort Meg by pointing out that Laurie is coming over and Marmee just arrived home. Laurie invites the girls to come with him while he drives Mr. Brooke home in the carriage. Everyone agrees except Meg, who is being very proper and trying not to go out too often with the young men. Laurie also agrees to go by the post office - the real one, not the box in the hedge between their houses - and check for letters from Mr. March. They are interrupted by the doorbell. Hannah answers and receives a telegram from the postman. Mrs. March snatches the telegram from Hannah and reads it. It says that her husband is very ill at a hospital in Washington and she needs to go there immediately. The girls gather around their mother and many tears are shed. Hannah pulls herself together and begins packing a bag for Mrs. March. Mrs. March asks Laurie to send a telegram in reply, saying that she will come right away - on the next train in the morning. She also asks him to take a note to Aunt March, telling her what has happened and asking to borrow money for the journey. Next, Mrs. March sends Jo out to buy some things she might need for nursing their father back to health, just in case the hospital is running short. Beth is sent next door to ask Mr. Laurence for some bottles of wine. Amy and Meg are given chores at home. Beth comes back, bringing Mr. Laurence with her. He gives Mrs. March wine and everything else he can think of that she might need. He wants to escort her on the journey, but she won't let him because he's a bit too frail to travel. Mr. Laurence sends Mr. Brooke to accompany Mrs. March instead. Meg, especially, is very grateful. Almost everything has been done when Laurie returns with a note from Aunt March, which encloses the money Mrs. March will need, but also includes an "I told you so" letter. Everyone has finished their preparations and they are getting ready to have tea , but Jo hasn't returned yet. They start to worry about her. Jo comes home with $25 - a lot of money in those days! - which she says is her contribution to making her father comfortable. Everyone wonders where she got it until she takes off her bonnet - and reveals that she cut and sold her hair! Jo's family is surprised by her sacrifice, but Jo explains that she wanted to do something to help, and this was an honest way of earning money on her own. Jo describes her experience at the hair salon. She was wandering around downtown, wondering what she could do for money, and then she saw hairpieces and wigs in the barber's window. She went in and asked if the barber would buy her hair. The barber told Jo that her hair was an unfashionable color and that it was a lot of work to make the hairpieces. He wasn't going to buy her hair, but then she told the story about her father being sick in Washington, and the barber's wife convinced him to do her a favor. Jo has saved one lock for her mother to keep. Her mother puts it beside another lock of hair, a gray one, that is already in the desk. The girls try to be cheerful until bedtime. When they sing before bed, everyone breaks down crying. As they go to bed, Beth and Amy fall asleep, but Meg lies awake. She hears Jo crying and asks if it's about their father - but Jo says it's about her hair! Jo asks what Meg has been thinking about as she lay awake. Meg says that she was thinking about handsome, brown-eyed faces. Finally Meg and Jo fall asleep, but their mother is still awake, roaming through the house kissing her daughters on their sleeping cheeks and praying.


prompt:
Chapter: XVI. LETTERS.

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

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

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

"Yes, mother."

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

"We will, mother! we will!"

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

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

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

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

                    [Illustration: She rolled away]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That's so like my Beth!" said Jo, waving her hat, with a grateful face.
"Good-by, Meggy; I hope the Kings won't train to-day. Don't fret about
father, dear," she added, as they parted.

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

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

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

    "MY DEAREST MOTHER,--

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

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

    "MY PRECIOUS MARMEE,--

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

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

                         "A SONG FROM THE SUDS.

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

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

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

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

    "DEAR MOTHER,--

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

    "Kiss dear father on the cheek he calls mine. Oh, do come soon
    to your loving
                                                      "LITTLE BETH."

                    [Illustration: I wind the clock]

    "MA CHERE MAMMA,--

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

    "DEAR MIS MARCH,--

    "I jes drop a line to say we git on fust rate. The girls is
    clever and fly round right smart. Miss Meg is going to make a
    proper good housekeeper; she hes the liking for it, and gits
    the hang of things surprisin quick. Jo doos beat all for goin
    ahead, but she don't stop to cal'k'late fust, and you never
    know where she's like to bring up. She done out a tub of
    clothes on Monday, but she starched 'em afore they was
    wrenched, and blued a pink calico dress till I thought I should
    a died a laughin. Beth is the best of little creeters, and a
    sight of help to me, bein so forehanded and dependable. She
    tries to learn everything, and really goes to market beyond her
    years; likewise keeps accounts, with my help, quite wonderful.
    We have got on very economical so fur; I don't let the girls
    hev coffee only once a week, accordin to your wish, and keep em
    on plain wholesome vittles. Amy does well about frettin, wearin
    her best clothes and eatin sweet stuff. Mr. Laurie is as full
    of didoes as usual, and turns the house upside down frequent;
    but he heartens up the girls, and so I let em hev full swing.
    The old gentleman sends heaps of things, and is rather wearin,
    but means wal, and it aint my place to say nothin. My bread is
    riz, so no more at this time. I send my duty to Mr. March, and
    hope he's seen the last of his Pewmonia.
                           "Yours Respectful,
                                                "HANNAH MULLET."

            [Illustration: Yours Respectful, Hannah Mullet]

    "HEAD NURSE OF WARD NO. 2,--

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

    "DEAR MADAM,--

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

                       [Illustration: Tail-piece]

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

completion: In the morning, the girls' usual routine of reading their Bibles to start the day seems even more important and comforting than usual. They eat breakfast very early. The girls try to be cheerful and strong for their mother, but they keep breaking down. Mrs. March leaves with a few last words of encouragement for the girls. She tells them that Hannah will take care of them and Mr. Laurence will help and protect them, too. She reminds them to use everyday work as a source of comfort. Mrs. March and Mr. Brooke leave in the carriage, and the girls, Hannah, Laurie, and Mr. Laurence all wave goodbye to them. Mrs. March is struck by how kind people are to her family, and Mr. Brooke laughs and says they can't help it. After their mother is gone, the girls cry for a little bit. Then, Hannah insists that they drink some coffee and calm down. Breakfast helps the girls feel calmer, and then Meg and Jo set out for their jobs as usual. Beth and Amy plan to do the housework under Hannah's direction. Many letters are exchanged between Mrs. March in Washington and the family back home. The girls are pleased to learn that their father is doing better, although he is still in critical condition. The rest of the chapter consists of a selection of the letters written while Mr. March is ill. The first letter is from Meg to her mother. Meg reports on the good behavior and progress of each of her sisters, assures her mother that Hannah and Mr. Laurence are looking after them, and sends her love to her father. The second letter is from Jo to her mother and sharply contrasts with Meg's letter. Jo describes Meg's attempts to be maternal and a fight that she had with Laurie. She encloses a poem about housework to amuse her father. The third letter is from Beth, and it's short and sweet. Beth sends her father her love and also some pressed pansies, and assures her mother that she's doing all her duties at home. The rest of the sheet with Beth's letter is covered with the fourth letter, which is from Amy. Amy's letter is full of misspellings and misused words, and she describes the little things that bother her, such as an obviously-mended dress and Laurie teasing her. The next letter is from Hannah. Hannah's spelling and grammar are about as bad as Amy's, but she reports that Meg and Beth are fine housekeepers. Jo, Hannah says, is enthusiastic but always making funny mistakes, and Amy's doing OK. The next letter is from Laurie. It's written as though it were a military situation report, and Laurie signs himself "Colonel Teddy." The final letter is a short note from Mr. Laurence, saying that everything is going well and offering any help that Mr. March might need.


prompt:
Chapter: XVII. LITTLE FAITHFUL.

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

Jo caught a bad cold through neglect to cover the shorn head enough, and
was ordered to stay at home till she was better, for Aunt March didn't
like to hear people read with colds in their heads. Jo liked this, and
after an energetic rummage from garret to cellar, subsided on the sofa
to nurse her cold with arsenicum and books. Amy found that housework and
art did not go well together, and returned to her mud pies. Meg went
daily to her pupils, and sewed, or thought she did, at home, but much
time was spent in writing long letters to her mother, or reading the
Washington despatches over and over. Beth kept on, with only slight
relapses into idleness or grieving. All the little duties were
faithfully done each day, and many of her sisters' also, for they were
forgetful, and the house seemed like a clock whose pendulum was gone
a-visiting. When her heart got heavy with longings for mother or fears
for father, she went away into a certain closet, hid her face in the
folds of a certain dear old gown, and made her little moan and prayed
her little prayer quietly by herself. Nobody knew what cheered her up
after a sober fit, but every one felt how sweet and helpful Beth was,
and fell into a way of going to her for comfort or advice in their small
affairs.

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

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

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

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

"Too stormy for me with my cold."

"I thought it was almost well."

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

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

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

Beth spoke earnestly, and Meg promised she would go to-morrow.

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

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

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

"Well, I'll rest a little and wait for her."

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

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

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

"Years ago, when Meg did. Why?"

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

"What baby?"

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

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

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

         [Illustration: It didn't stir, and I knew it was dead]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                 [Illustration: He sat down beside her]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"On my honor as a gentleman."

"And come every single day?"

"See if I don't."

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

"The identical minute."

"And go to the theatre, truly?"

"A dozen theatres, if we may."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hum, well, I can't say; suppose you ask grandfather after the doctor
has been."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Aunt March received them with her usual hospitality.

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

                 [Illustration: What do you want now?]

"Go away. No boys allowed here."

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

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

Amy _was_ on the point of crying, but Laurie slyly pulled the parrot's
tail, which caused Polly to utter an astonished croak, and call out,--

"Bless my boots!" in such a funny way, that she laughed instead.

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

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

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

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

"Hold your tongue, you disrespectful old bird! and, Jo, you'd better go
at once; it isn't proper to be gadding about so late with a rattle-pated
boy like--"

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

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

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

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

completion: For a week after Mrs. March goes to Washington, her daughters behave impeccably. They work hard and try to do everything perfectly. However, after the first excitement, the girls begin neglecting their duties. Jo gets sick and has to stay home from Aunt March's, and then she falls into a pattern of reading and lying around. Amy stops doing housework and just experiments with art and sculpting. Meg starts to waste time reading the news over and over and writing long letters to her mother. Beth alone keeps doing all her chores - in fact, she starts doing a lot of her sisters' chores, too. When Mrs. March has been gone for ten days, Beth asks Meg to visit the Hummels. Mrs. March asked the girls to remember the poor family. Meg says she's too tired to go, and Jo says that she's too sick. Meg tells Beth to go herself. Beth says that she has been going every day, but the baby is sick and she doesn't know how to take care of it. Meg says she'll go tomorrow, or that Amy, who will be home soon, can go. Beth has a headache and is tired, so she lies down on the sofa. An hour passes, but Amy doesn't come home. Jo is absorbed in her writing, Meg goes upstairs to try on a new dress, and Hannah falls asleep. Beth gets up and quietly goes out with a basket of things to take to the Hummels. Beth comes home late and shuts herself into her mother's room. When Jo goes looking for something there, she finds Beth looking sad with red eyes. Jo asks what's wrong. Beth asks her if she's had scarlet fever. Jo says yes, that she and Meg had it when they were little. Beth tells Jo that the Hummels' baby died in her lap that afternoon. The doctor came and said that it was scarlet fever and sent Beth home. Beth explains that she looked up scarlet fever in the family's medical dictionary and realized that she did have the first symptoms. She took some belladonna and says that she feels better. Jo feels sure that Beth is going to get sick - she's spent every day with the sick baby for the last week. Beth warns her not to let Amy come home; unlike Meg and Jo, Amy hasn't had scarlet fever and would be susceptible. Jo tells Hannah what is going on. Hannah sends for Dr. Bangs and decides that Amy will stay with Aunt March. Jo plans to stay home and nurse Beth while Meg continues working. When Amy comes home and is told that she has to go away, she is very upset. Laurie walks into the house and finds her crying on the sofa. Laurie promises Amy that, if she goes to Aunt March's and is good, he will come and visit her every day and take her driving or walking. Amy reluctantly agrees. Meg and Jo are relieved that Laurie has convinced Amy to go to Aunt March's quietly. Laurie asks Meg and Jo how Beth is doing. They tell him that she is lying down and seems to feel better. Laurie asks if he should send a telegram to Mrs. March to tell her that Beth is sick. Jo and Meg aren't sure; they don't want to worry their mother and they don't know how sick Beth really is. They decide to consult the doctor first. Laurie goes to get the doctor. Dr. Bangs arrives and says that she will probably have scarlet fever, but only "lightly." Jo and Laurie take Amy to Aunt March's house. Aunt March agrees to look after Amy while Beth is sick. Aunt March's parrot, Polly, keeps saying ridiculous things that amuse Amy, Laurie, and Jo - especially when Laurie pulls its tail. Amy is depressed at the prospect of several weeks with Aunt March.


prompt:
Chapter: XVIII. DARK DAYS

                [Illustration: Beth did have the fever]

Beth did have the fever, and was much sicker than any one but Hannah and
the doctor suspected. The girls knew nothing about illness, and Mr.
Laurence was not allowed to see her, so Hannah had everything all her
own way, and busy Dr. Bangs did his best, but left a good deal to the
excellent nurse. Meg stayed at home, lest she should infect the Kings,
and kept house, feeling very anxious and a little guilty when she wrote
letters in which no mention was made of Beth's illness. She could not
think it right to deceive her mother, but she had been bidden to mind
Hannah, and Hannah wouldn't hear of "Mrs. March bein' told, and worried
just for sech a trifle." Jo devoted herself to Beth day and night; not a
hard task, for Beth was very patient, and bore her pain uncomplainingly
as long as she could control herself. But there came a time when during
the fever fits she began to talk in a hoarse, broken voice, to play on
the coverlet, as if on her beloved little piano, and try to sing with a
throat so swollen that there was no music left; a time when she did not
know the familiar faces round her, but addressed them by wrong names,
and called imploringly for her mother. Then Jo grew frightened, Meg
begged to be allowed to write the truth, and even Hannah said she "would
think of it, though there was no danger _yet_." A letter from Washington
added to their trouble, for Mr. March had had a relapse, and could not
think of coming home for a long while.

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

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

The first of December was a wintry day indeed to them, for a bitter wind
blew, snow fell fast, and the year seemed getting ready for its death.
When Dr. Bangs came that morning, he looked long at Beth, held the hot
hand in both his own a minute, and laid it gently down, saying, in a low
tone, to Hannah,--

"If Mrs. March _can_ leave her husband, she'd better be sent for."

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

"What is it? is Beth worse?"

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

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

"No, the doctor told us to."

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

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

As the tears streamed fast down poor Jo's cheeks, she stretched out her
hand in a helpless sort of way, as if groping in the dark, and Laurie
took it in his, whispering, as well as he could, with a lump in his
throat,--

"I'm here. Hold on to me, Jo, dear!"

She could not speak, but she did "hold on," and the warm grasp of the
friendly human hand comforted her sore heart, and seemed to lead her
nearer to the Divine arm which alone could uphold her in her trouble.
Laurie longed to say something tender and comfortable, but no fitting
words came to him, so he stood silent, gently stroking her bent head as
her mother used to do. It was the best thing he could have done; far
more soothing than the most eloquent words, for Jo felt the unspoken
sympathy, and, in the silence, learned the sweet solace which affection
administers to sorrow. Soon she dried the tears which had relieved her,
and looked up with a grateful face.

   [Illustration: Gently stroking her head as her mother used to do]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Laurie spoke very fast, and turned red and excited all in a minute, for
he had kept his plot a secret, for fear of disappointing the girls or
harming Beth. Jo grew quite white, flew out of her chair, and the moment
he stopped speaking she electrified him by throwing her arms round his
neck, and crying out, with a joyful cry, "O Laurie! O mother! I _am_ so
glad!" She did not weep again, but laughed hysterically, and trembled
and clung to her friend as if she was a little bewildered by the sudden
news. Laurie, though decidedly amazed, behaved with great presence of
mind; he patted her back soothingly, and, finding that she was
recovering, followed it up by a bashful kiss or two, which brought Jo
round at once. Holding on to the banisters, she put him gently away,
saying breathlessly, "Oh, don't! I didn't mean to; it was dreadful of
me; but you were such a dear to go and do it in spite of Hannah that I
couldn't help flying at you. Tell me all about it, and don't give me
wine again; it makes me act so."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                       [Illustration: Amy's Will]

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

completion: Beth comes down with scarlet fever and is extremely sick, but at first only Hannah and Dr. Bangs realize that the illness might be life-threatening. Meg writes letters to her mother, who is still in Washington nursing Mr. March back to health. Meg doesn't tell her mother that Beth is sick. Jo nurses Beth day and night. Beth gets sicker and sicker, and eventually doesn't recognize her and deliriously tries to play the piano while lying in bed. Now that Beth is sick and might die, her sisters appreciate everything that she did to make their home pleasant and comfortable. Amy longs to go home and Meg and Jo realize how happy they really were before Beth's illness. While Beth is conscious and aware of what's going on, she tries to comfort everyone around her. Then, she falls into a feverish, delirious state. On December 1, after examining Beth, Dr. Bangs says that Mrs. March should be sent for. Jo sends a telegram to her mother. On her way home, Jo meets Laurie, who has a letter from Mrs. March saying that Mr. March is getting better. Jo tells Laurie how sick Beth is, and Laurie holds her and comforts her while she cries. Jo composes herself a little. She tells Laurie that she will miss Beth the most of anyone in the family, because Beth is her conscience. Laurie says that God won't take Beth yet. Jo isn't so sure. Laurie brings Jo a glass of wine. Laurie tells Jo that he sent Mrs. March a telegram secretly yesterday, asking her to come home because he was worried about Beth. Mrs. March is going to arrive this evening! Jo is very grateful and hugs Laurie, laughing hysterically. Laurie explains that he and his grandfather decided it was time that Mrs. March should be informed of Beth's illness, but they didn't want to worry anyone, so Laurie sent the message on his own own. Jo asks how she can thank Laurie. Laurie says that she should hug him again. Jo refuses and goes downstairs. Jo tells Hannah and Meg that Marmee will be there that evening. They are excited and relieved, and they make preparations for her arrival. The doctor comes to look at Beth again and says that her condition will change, for good or ill, by midnight. Meg, Jo, Hannah, Mr. Laurence, and Laurie wait at Beth's bedside, watching and waiting. Hannah falls asleep. The girls pray to God to save Beth's life. As Meg and Jo watch, Beth's face does seem to change around the stroke of midnight. They think she is dying. At two a.m., Jo thinks Beth might actually be dead, and leans closer to kiss her goodbye. She sees that Beth has a better color and is breathing normally! Hannah wakes up and says that Beth's fever has broken and she is going to recover. The doctor arrives and confirms what Hannah has said. Meg puts a newly-bloomed white rose in a vase beside Beth's bedside. As the girls wait, they hear the bells of a carriage from below, and realize that Mrs. March is home!