prompt:
Chapter: XXXI. OUR FOREIGN CORRESPONDENT.

                                                    "LONDON.
    "DEAREST PEOPLE,--

    "Here I really sit at a front window of the Bath Hotel,
    Piccadilly. It's not a fashionable place, but uncle stopped here
    years ago, and won't go anywhere else; however, we don't mean to
    stay long, so it's no great matter. Oh, I can't begin to tell
    you how I enjoy it all! I never can, so I'll only give you bits
    out of my note-book, for I've done nothing but sketch and
    scribble since I started.

    "I sent a line from Halifax, when I felt pretty miserable, but
    after that I got on delightfully, seldom ill, on deck all day,
    with plenty of pleasant people to amuse me. Every one was very
    kind to me, especially the officers. Don't laugh, Jo; gentlemen
    really are very necessary aboard ship, to hold on to, or to wait
    upon one; and as they have nothing to do, it's a mercy to make
    them useful, otherwise they would smoke themselves to death, I'm
    afraid.

        [Illustration: "Every one was very kind, especially the
                         officers."--Page 378.]

    "Aunt and Flo were poorly all the way, and liked to be let
    alone, so when I had done what I could for them, I went and
    enjoyed myself. Such walks on deck, such sunsets, such splendid
    air and waves! It was almost as exciting as riding a fast
    horse, when we went rushing on so grandly. I wish Beth could
    have come, it would have done her so much good; as for Jo, she
    would have gone up and sat on the main-top jib, or whatever the
    high thing is called, made friends with the engineers, and
    tooted on the captain's speaking-trumpet, she'd have been in
    such a state of rapture.

    "It was all heavenly, but I was glad to see the Irish coast, and
    found it very lovely, so green and sunny, with brown cabins here
    and there, ruins on some of the hills, and gentlemen's
    country-seats in the valleys, with deer feeding in the parks. It
    was early in the morning, but I didn't regret getting up to see
    it, for the bay was full of little boats, the shore _so_
    picturesque, and a rosy sky overhead. I never shall forget it.

    "At Queenstown one of my new acquaintances left us,--Mr.
    Lennox,--and when I said something about the Lakes of Killarney,
    he sighed and sung, with a look at me,--

        'Oh, have you e'er heard of Kate Kearney?
         She lives on the banks of Killarney;
         From the glance of her eye,
         Shun danger and fly,
         For fatal's the glance of Kate Kearney.'

    Wasn't that nonsensical?

    "We only stopped at Liverpool a few hours. It's a dirty, noisy
    place, and I was glad to leave it. Uncle rushed out and bought a
    pair of dog-skin gloves, some ugly, thick shoes, and an
    umbrella, and got shaved _à la_ mutton-chop, the first thing.
    Then he flattered himself that he looked like a true Briton; but
    the first time he had the mud cleaned off his shoes, the little
    bootblack knew that an American stood in them, and said, with a
    grin, 'There yer har, sir. I've give 'em the latest Yankee
    shine.' It amused uncle immensely. Oh, I _must_ tell you what
    that absurd Lennox did! He got his friend Ward, who came on with
    us, to order a bouquet for me, and the first thing I saw in my
    room was a lovely one, with 'Robert Lennox's compliments,' on
    the card. Wasn't that fun, girls? I like travelling.

    "I never _shall_ get to London if I don't hurry. The trip was
    like riding through a long picture-gallery, full of lovely
    landscapes. The farmhouses were my delight; with thatched roofs,
    ivy up to the eaves, latticed windows, and stout women with rosy
    children at the doors. The very cattle looked more tranquil than
    ours, as they stood knee-deep in clover, and the hens had a
    contented cluck, as if they never got nervous, like Yankee
    biddies. Such perfect color I never saw,--the grass so green,
    sky so blue, grain so yellow, woods so dark,--I was in a rapture
    all the way. So was Flo; and we kept bouncing from one side to
    the other, trying to see everything while we were whisking along
    at the rate of sixty miles an hour. Aunt was tired and went to
    sleep, but uncle read his guide-book, and wouldn't be astonished
    at anything. This is the way we went on: Amy, flying up,--'Oh,
    that must be Kenilworth, that gray place among the trees!' Flo,
    darting to my window,--'How sweet! We must go there some time,
    won't we, papa?' Uncle, calmly admiring his boots,--'No, my
    dear, not unless you want beer; that's a brewery.'

    "A pause,--then Flo cried out, 'Bless me, there's a gallows and
    a man going up.' 'Where, where?' shrieks Amy, staring out at two
    tall posts with a cross-beam and some dangling chains. 'A
    colliery,' remarks uncle, with a twinkle of the eye. 'Here's a
    lovely flock of lambs all lying down,' says Amy. 'See, papa,
    aren't they pretty!' added Flo sentimentally. 'Geese, young
    ladies,' returns uncle, in a tone that keeps us quiet till Flo
    settles down to enjoy 'The Flirtations of Capt. Cavendish,' and
    I have the scenery all to myself.

    "Of course it rained when we got to London, and there was
    nothing to be seen but fog and umbrellas. We rested, unpacked,
    and shopped a little between the showers. Aunt Mary got me some
    new things, for I came off in such a hurry I wasn't half ready.
    A white hat and blue feather, a muslin dress to match, and the
    loveliest mantle you ever saw. Shopping in Regent Street is
    perfectly splendid; things seem so cheap--nice ribbons only
    sixpence a yard. I laid in a stock, but shall get my gloves in
    Paris. Doesn't that sound sort of elegant and rich?

    "Flo and I, for the fun of it, ordered a hansom cab, while aunt
    and uncle were out, and went for a drive, though we learned
    afterward that it wasn't the thing for young ladies to ride in
    them alone. It was so droll! for when we were shut in by the
    wooden apron, the man drove so fast that Flo was frightened, and
    told me to stop him. But he was up outside behind somewhere, and
    I couldn't get at him. He didn't hear me call, nor see me flap
    my parasol in front, and there we were, quite helpless, rattling
    away, and whirling around corners at a break-neck pace. At last,
    in my despair, I saw a little door in the roof, and on poking it
    open, a red eye appeared, and a beery voice said,--

    "'Now then, mum?'

    "I gave my order as soberly as I could, and slamming down the
    door, with an 'Aye, aye, mum,' the man made his horse walk, as
    if going to a funeral. I poked again, and said, 'A little
    faster;' then off he went, helter-skelter, as before, and we
    resigned ourselves to our fate.

    "To-day was fair and we went to Hyde Park, close by, for we are
    more aristocratic than we look. The Duke of Devonshire lives
    near. I often see his footmen lounging at the back gate; and the
    Duke of Wellington's house is not far off. Such sights as I saw,
    my dear! It was as good as Punch, for there were fat dowagers
    rolling about in their red and yellow coaches, with gorgeous
    Jeameses in silk stockings and velvet coats, up behind, and
    powdered coachmen in front. Smart maids, with the rosiest
    children I ever saw; handsome girls, looking half asleep;
    dandies, in queer English hats and lavender kids, lounging
    about, and tall soldiers, in short red jackets and muffin caps
    stuck on one side, looking so funny I longed to sketch them.

    "Rotten Row means '_Route de Roi_,' or the king's way; but now
    it's more like a riding-school than anything else. The horses
    are splendid, and the men, especially the grooms, ride well; but
    the women are stiff, and bounce, which isn't according to our
    rules. I longed to show them a tearing American gallop, for they
    trotted solemnly up and down, in their scant habits and high
    hats, looking like the women in a toy Noah's Ark. Every one
    rides,--old men, stout ladies, little children,--and the young
    folks do a deal of flirting here; I saw a pair exchange
    rosebuds, for it's the thing to wear one in the button-hole, and
    I thought it rather a nice little idea.

    "In the P.M. to Westminster Abbey; but don't expect me to
    describe it, that's impossible--so I'll only say it was sublime!
    This evening we are going to see Fechter, which will be an
    appropriate end to the happiest day of my life.

                                                          "MIDNIGHT.

    "It's very late, but I can't let my letter go in the morning
    without telling you what happened last evening. Who do you think
    came in, as we were at tea? Laurie's English friends, Fred and
    Frank Vaughn! I was _so_ surprised, for I shouldn't have known
    them but for the cards. Both are tall fellows, with whiskers;
    Fred handsome in the English style, and Frank much better, for
    he only limps slightly, and uses no crutches. They had heard
    from Laurie where we were to be, and came to ask us to their
    house; but uncle won't go, so we shall return the call, and see
    them as we can. They went to the theatre with us, and we did
    have _such_ a good time, for Frank devoted himself to Flo, and
    Fred and I talked over past, present, and future fun as if we
    had known each other all our days. Tell Beth Frank asked for
    her, and was sorry to hear of her ill health. Fred laughed when
    I spoke of Jo, and sent his 'respectful compliments to the big
    hat.' Neither of them had forgotten Camp Laurence, or the fun we
    had there. What ages ago it seems, doesn't it?

    "Aunt is tapping on the wall for the third time, so I _must_
    stop. I really feel like a dissipated London fine lady, writing
    here so late, with my room full of pretty things, and my head a
    jumble of parks, theatres, new gowns, and gallant creatures who
    say 'Ah!' and twirl their blond mustaches with the true English
    lordliness. I long to see you all, and in spite of my nonsense
    am, as ever, your loving
                                                               AMY."

    "DEAR GIRLS,--                                           "PARIS.

    "In my last I told you about our London visit,--how kind the
    Vaughns were, and what pleasant parties they made for us. I
    enjoyed the trips to Hampton Court and the Kensington Museum
    more than anything else,--for at Hampton I saw Raphael's
    cartoons, and, at the Museum, rooms full of pictures by Turner,
    Lawrence, Reynolds, Hogarth, and the other great creatures. The
    day in Richmond Park was charming, for we had a regular English
    picnic, and I had more splendid oaks and groups of deer than I
    could copy; also heard a nightingale, and saw larks go up. We
    'did' London to our hearts' content, thanks to Fred and Frank,
    and were sorry to go away; for, though English people are slow
    to take you in, when they once make up their minds to do it they
    cannot be outdone in hospitality, _I_ think. The Vaughns hope to
    meet us in Rome next winter, and I shall be dreadfully
    disappointed if they don't, for Grace and I are great friends,
    and the boys very nice fellows,--especially Fred.

    "Well, we were hardly settled here, when he turned up again,
    saying he had come for a holiday, and was going to Switzerland.
    Aunt looked sober at first, but he was so cool about it she
    couldn't say a word; and now we get on nicely, and are very glad
    he came, for he speaks French like a native, and I don't know
    what we should do without him. Uncle doesn't know ten words, and
    insists on talking English very loud, as if that would make
    people understand him. Aunt's pronunciation is old-fashioned,
    and Flo and I, though we flattered ourselves that we knew a good
    deal, find we don't, and are very grateful to have Fred do the
    '_parley vooing_,' as uncle calls it.

    "Such delightful times as we are having! sight-seeing from
    morning till night, stopping for nice lunches in the gay
    _cafés_, and meeting with all sorts of droll adventures. Rainy
    days I spend in the Louvre, revelling in pictures. Jo would turn
    up her naughty nose at some of the finest, because she has no
    soul for art; but _I_ have, and I'm cultivating eye and taste as
    fast as I can. She would like the relics of great people better,
    for I've seen her Napoleon's cocked hat and gray coat, his
    baby's cradle and his old toothbrush; also Marie Antoinette's
    little shoe, the ring of Saint Denis, Charlemagne's sword, and
    many other interesting things. I'll talk for hours about them
    when I come, but haven't time to write.

    "The Palais Royale is a heavenly place,--so full of _bijouterie_
    and lovely things that I'm nearly distracted because I can't buy
    them. Fred wanted to get me some, but of course I didn't allow
    it. Then the Bois and the Champs Elysées are _très magnifique_.
    I've seen the imperial family several times,--the emperor an
    ugly, hard-looking man, the empress pale and pretty, but dressed
    in bad taste, _I_ thought,--purple dress, green hat, and yellow
    gloves. Little Nap. is a handsome boy, who sits chatting to his
    tutor, and kisses his hand to the people as he passes in his
    four-horse barouche, with postilions in red satin jackets, and a
    mounted guard before and behind.

      [Illustration: I've seen the imperial family several times]

    "We often walk in the Tuileries Gardens, for they are lovely,
    though the antique Luxembourg Gardens suit me better. Père la
    Chaise is very curious, for many of the tombs are like small
    rooms, and, looking in, one sees a table, with images or
    pictures of the dead, and chairs for the mourners to sit in
    when they come to lament. That is so Frenchy.

    "Our rooms are on the Rue de Rivoli, and, sitting in the
    balcony, we look up and down the long, brilliant street. It is
    so pleasant that we spend our evenings talking there, when too
    tired with our day's work to go out. Fred is very entertaining,
    and is altogether the most agreeable young man I ever
    knew,--except Laurie, whose manners are more charming. I wish
    Fred was dark, for I don't fancy light men; however, the Vaughns
    are very rich, and come of an excellent family, so I won't find
    fault with their yellow hair, as my own is yellower.

    "Next week we are off to Germany and Switzerland; and, as we
    shall travel fast, I shall only be able to give you hasty
    letters. I keep my diary, and try to 'remember correctly and
    describe clearly all that I see and admire,' as father advised.
    It is good practice for me, and, with my sketch-book, will give
    you a better idea of my tour than these scribbles.

    "Adieu; I embrace you tenderly.                     VOTRE AMIE."

    "MY DEAR MAMMA,--                                   "HEIDELBERG.

    "Having a quiet hour before we leave for Berne, I'll try to tell
    you what has happened, for some of it is very important, as you
    will see.

    "The sail up the Rhine was perfect, and I just sat and enjoyed
    it with all my might. Get father's old guide-books, and read
    about it; I haven't words beautiful enough to describe it. At
    Coblentz we had a lovely time, for some students from Bonn, with
    whom Fred got acquainted on the boat, gave us a serenade. It was
    a moonlight night, and, about one o'clock, Flo and I were waked
    by the most delicious music under our windows. We flew up, and
    hid behind the curtains; but sly peeps showed us Fred and the
    students singing away down below. It was the most romantic thing
    I ever saw,--the river, the bridge of boats, the great fortress
    opposite, moonlight everywhere, and music fit to melt a heart of
    stone.

    "When they were done we threw down some flowers, and saw them
    scramble for them, kiss their hands to the invisible ladies, and
    go laughing away,--to smoke and drink beer, I suppose. Next
    morning Fred showed me one of the crumpled flowers in his
    vest-pocket, and looked very sentimental. I laughed at him, and
    said I didn't throw it, but Flo, which seemed to disgust him,
    for he tossed it out of the window, and turned sensible again.
    I'm afraid I'm going to have trouble with that boy, it begins to
    look like it.

    "The baths at Nassau were very gay, so was Baden-Baden, where
    Fred lost some money, and I scolded him. He needs some one to
    look after him when Frank is not with him. Kate said once she
    hoped he'd marry soon, and I quite agree with her that it would
    be well for him. Frankfort was delightful; I saw Goethe's house,
    Schiller's statue, and Dannecker's famous 'Ariadne.' It was very
    lovely, but I should have enjoyed it more if I had known the
    story better. I didn't like to ask, as every one knew it, or
    pretended they did. I wish Jo would tell me all about it; I
    ought to have read more, for I find I don't know anything, and
    it mortifies me.

    "Now comes the serious part,--for it happened here, and Fred is
    just gone. He has been so kind and jolly that we all got quite
    fond of him; I never thought of anything but a travelling
    friendship, till the serenade night. Since then I've begun to
    feel that the moonlight walks, balcony talks, and daily
    adventures were something more to him than fun. I haven't
    flirted, mother, truly, but remembered what you said to me, and
    have done my very best. I can't help it if people like me; I
    don't try to make them, and it worries me if I don't care for
    them, though Jo says I haven't got any heart. Now I know mother
    will shake her head, and the girls say, 'Oh, the mercenary
    little wretch!' but I've made up my mind, and, if Fred asks me,
    I shall accept him, though I'm not madly in love. I like him,
    and we get on comfortably together. He is handsome, young,
    clever enough, and very rich,--ever so much richer than the
    Laurences. I don't think his family would object, and I should
    be very happy, for they are all kind, well-bred, generous
    people, and they like me. Fred, as the eldest twin, will have
    the estate, I suppose, and such a splendid one as it is! A city
    house in a fashionable street, not so showy as our big houses,
    but twice as comfortable, and full of solid luxury, such as
    English people believe in. I like it, for it's genuine. I've
    seen the plate, the family jewels, the old servants, and
    pictures of the country place, with its park, great house,
    lovely grounds, and fine horses. Oh, it would be all I should
    ask! and I'd rather have it than any title such as girls snap up
    so readily, and find nothing behind. I may be mercenary, but I
    hate poverty, and don't mean to bear it a minute longer than I
    can help. One of us _must_ marry well; Meg didn't, Jo won't,
    Beth can't yet, so I shall, and make everything cosey all round.
    I wouldn't marry a man I hated or despised. You may be sure of
    that; and, though Fred is not my model hero, he does very well,
    and, in time, I should get fond enough of him if he was very
    fond of me, and let me do just as I liked. So I've been turning
    the matter over in my mind the last week, for it was impossible
    to help seeing that Fred liked me. He said nothing, but little
    things showed it; he never goes with Flo, always gets on my side
    of the carriage, table, or promenade, looks sentimental when we
    are alone, and frowns at any one else who ventures to speak to
    me. Yesterday, at dinner, when an Austrian officer stared at us,
    and then said something to his friend,--a rakish-looking
    baron,--about '_ein wonderschönes Blöndchen_,' Fred looked as
    fierce as a lion, and cut his meat so savagely, it nearly flew
    off his plate. He isn't one of the cool, stiff Englishmen, but
    is rather peppery, for he has Scotch blood in him, as one might
    guess from his bonnie blue eyes.

    "Well, last evening we went up to the castle about sunset,--at
    least all of us but Fred, who was to meet us there, after going
    to the Post Restante for letters. We had a charming time poking
    about the ruins, the vaults where the monster tun is, and the
    beautiful gardens made by the elector, long ago, for his English
    wife. I liked the great terrace best, for the view was divine;
    so, while the rest went to see the rooms inside, I sat there
    trying to sketch the gray stone lion's head on the wall, with
    scarlet woodbine sprays hanging round it. I felt as if I'd got
    into a romance, sitting there, watching the Neckar rolling
    through the valley, listening to the music of the Austrian band
    below, and waiting for my lover, like a real story-book girl. I
    had a feeling that something was going to happen, and I was
    ready for it. I didn't feel blushy or quakey, but quite cool,
    and only a little excited.

[Illustration: Trying to sketch the gray-stone lion's head on the wall]

    "By and by I heard Fred's voice, and then he came hurrying
    through the great arch to find me. He looked so troubled that I
    forgot all about myself, and asked what the matter was. He said
    he'd just got a letter begging him to come home, for Frank was
    very ill; so he was going at once, in the night train, and only
    had time to say good-by. I was very sorry for him, and
    disappointed for myself, but only for a minute, because he
    said, as he shook hands,--and said it in a way that I could not
    mistake,--'I shall soon come back; you won't forget me, Amy?'

    "I didn't promise, but I looked at him, and he seemed satisfied,
    and there was no time for anything but messages and good-byes,
    for he was off in an hour, and we all miss him very much. I know
    he wanted to speak, but I think, from something he once hinted,
    that he had promised his father not to do anything of the sort
    yet awhile, for he is a rash boy, and the old gentleman dreads a
    foreign daughter-in-law. We shall soon meet in Rome; and then,
    if I don't change my mind, I'll say 'Yes, thank you,' when he
    says 'Will you, please?'

    "Of course this is all _very private_, but I wished you to know
    what was going on. Don't be anxious about me; remember I am your
    'prudent Amy,' and be sure I will do nothing rashly. Send me as
    much advice as you like; I'll use it if I can. I wish I could
    see you for a good talk, Marmee. Love and trust me.

                                    "Ever your                 AMY."

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

completion: Our Foreign Correspondent We learn of Amy's travels through her letters home. She describes the ship to Ireland and the train to London in picturesque detail, her artistic eye soaking up the colors and scenery. She enjoys traveling very much, including the attentions of several gentlemen along the way. London is rainy, but Amy enjoys shopping with her aunt. She is surprised to find Fred and Frank Vaughn come calling at tea, and enjoys laughing about Camp Laurence and going to the theater with them. The Vaughns are great hosts in London, taking Amy and her cousin Florence to museums and picnics. They are sad to part ways when the Carrols and Amy go to France, but they hope to meet in Rome. Amy particularly enjoys Fred, who then surprises them by turning up in Paris. They are thankful to have him along for company and translation. Amy is delighted by the Louvre, and is enjoying Fred's company more and more. Next, they sail up the Rhine, and Fred befriends some students who help him serenade Amy and Flo by moonlight. In Germany, Amy wishes she had read more, particularly Goethe. Fred gambles some money, and Amy says she thinks he needs someone to marry and look after him. Amy realizes that Fred has affections for her, and in her eminently practical way, decides that she will accept him if he asks. Fred is very rich, relatively enjoyable, and she thinks they could learn to be fond of each other. Amy wishes more to live in comfort than to be in love. Fred learns that Frank is ill and rushes away, but asks Amy not to forget him, and they plan to meet in Rome


prompt:
Chapter: XXXII. TENDER TROUBLES.

"Jo, I'm anxious about Beth."

"Why, mother, she has seemed unusually well since the babies came."

"It's not her health that troubles me now; it's her spirits. I'm sure
there is something on her mind, and I want you to discover what it is."

"What makes you think so, mother?"

"She sits alone a good deal, and doesn't talk to her father as much as
she used. I found her crying over the babies the other day. When she
sings, the songs are always sad ones, and now and then I see a look in
her face that I don't understand. This isn't like Beth, and it worries
me."

"Have you asked her about it?"

"I have tried once or twice; but she either evaded my questions, or
looked so distressed that I stopped. I never force my children's
confidence, and I seldom have to wait for it long."

Mrs. March glanced at Jo as she spoke, but the face opposite seemed
quite unconscious of any secret disquietude but Beth's; and, after
sewing thoughtfully for a minute, Jo said,--

"I think she is growing up, and so begins to dream dreams, and have
hopes and fears and fidgets, without knowing why, or being able to
explain them. Why, mother, Beth's eighteen, but we don't realize it, and
treat her like a child, forgetting she's a woman."

"So she is. Dear heart, how fast you do grow up," returned her mother,
with a sigh and a smile.

"Can't be helped, Marmee, so you must resign yourself to all sorts of
worries, and let your birds hop out of the nest, one by one. I promise
never to hop very far, if that is any comfort to you."

"It is a great comfort, Jo; I always feel strong when you are at home,
now Meg is gone. Beth is too feeble and Amy too young to depend upon;
but when the tug comes, you are always ready."

"Why, you know I don't mind hard jobs much, and there must always be one
scrub in a family. Amy is splendid in fine works, and I'm not; but I
feel in my element when all the carpets are to be taken up, or half the
family fall sick at once. Amy is distinguishing herself abroad; but if
anything is amiss at home, I'm your man."

"I leave Beth to your hands, then, for she will open her tender little
heart to her Jo sooner than to any one else. Be very kind, and don't let
her think any one watches or talks about her. If she only would get
quite strong and cheerful again, I shouldn't have a wish in the world."

"Happy woman! I've got heaps."

"My dear, what are they?"

"I'll settle Bethy's troubles, and then I'll tell you mine. They are not
very wearing, so they'll keep;" and Jo stitched away, with a wise nod
which set her mother's heart at rest about her, for the present at
least.

While apparently absorbed in her own affairs, Jo watched Beth; and,
after many conflicting conjectures, finally settled upon one which
seemed to explain the change in her. A slight incident gave Jo the clue
to the mystery, she thought, and lively fancy, loving heart did the
rest. She was affecting to write busily one Saturday afternoon, when she
and Beth were alone together; yet as she scribbled, she kept her eye on
her sister, who seemed unusually quiet. Sitting at the window, Beth's
work often dropped into her lap, and she leaned her head upon her hand,
in a dejected attitude, while her eyes rested on the dull, autumnal
landscape. Suddenly some one passed below, whistling like an operatic
blackbird, and a voice called out,--

           [Illustration: She leaned her head upon her hands]

"All serene! Coming in to-night."

Beth started, leaned forward, smiled and nodded, watched the passer-by
till his quick tramp died away, then said softly, as if to herself,--

"How strong and well and happy that dear boy looks."

"Hum!" said Jo, still intent upon her sister's face; for the bright
color faded as quickly as it came, the smile vanished, and presently a
tear lay shining on the window-ledge. Beth whisked it off, and glanced
apprehensively at Jo; but she was scratching away at a tremendous rate,
apparently engrossed in "Olympia's Oath." The instant Beth turned, Jo
began her watch again, saw Beth's hand go quietly to her eyes more than
once, and, in her half-averted face, read a tender sorrow that made her
own eyes fill. Fearing to betray herself, she slipped away, murmuring
something about needing more paper.

"Mercy on me, Beth loves Laurie!" she said, sitting down in her own
room, pale with the shock of the discovery which she believed she had
just made. "I never dreamt of such a thing. What _will_ mother say? I
wonder if he--" there Jo stopped, and turned scarlet with a sudden
thought. "If he shouldn't love back again, how dreadful it would be. He
must; I'll make him!" and she shook her head threateningly at the
picture of the mischievous-looking boy laughing at her from the wall.
"Oh dear, we _are_ growing up with a vengeance. Here's Meg married and a
mamma, Amy flourishing away at Paris, and Beth in love. I'm the only one
that has sense enough to keep out of mischief." Jo thought intently for
a minute, with her eyes fixed on the picture; then she smoothed out her
wrinkled forehead, and said, with a decided nod at the face opposite,
"No, thank you, sir; you're very charming, but you've no more stability
than a weathercock; so you needn't write touching notes, and smile in
that insinuating way, for it won't do a bit of good, and I won't have
it."

Then she sighed, and fell into a reverie, from which she did not wake
till the early twilight sent her down to take new observations, which
only confirmed her suspicion. Though Laurie flirted with Amy and joked
with Jo, his manner to Beth had always been peculiarly kind and gentle,
but so was everybody's; therefore, no one thought of imagining that he
cared more for her than for the others. Indeed, a general impression had
prevailed in the family, of late, that "our boy" was getting fonder than
ever of Jo, who, however, wouldn't hear a word upon the subject, and
scolded violently if any one dared to suggest it. If they had known the
various tender passages of the past year, or rather attempts at tender
passages which had been nipped in the bud, they would have had the
immense satisfaction of saying, "I told you so." But Jo hated
"philandering," and wouldn't allow it, always having a joke or a smile
ready at the least sign of impending danger.

When Laurie first went to college, he fell in love about once a month;
but these small flames were as brief as ardent, did no damage, and much
amused Jo, who took great interest in the alternations of hope, despair,
and resignation, which were confided to her in their weekly
conferences. But there came a time when Laurie ceased to worship at many
shrines, hinted darkly at one all-absorbing passion, and indulged
occasionally in Byronic fits of gloom. Then he avoided the tender
subject altogether, wrote philosophical notes to Jo, turned studious,
and gave out that he was going to "dig," intending to graduate in a
blaze of glory. This suited the young lady better than twilight
confidences, tender pressures of the hand, and eloquent glances of the
eye; for with Jo, brain developed earlier than heart, and she preferred
imaginary heroes to real ones, because, when tired of them, the former
could be shut up in the tin-kitchen till called for, and the latter were
less manageable.

Things were in this state when the grand discovery was made, and Jo
watched Laurie that night as she had never done before. If she had not
got the new idea into her head, she would have seen nothing unusual in
the fact that Beth was very quiet, and Laurie very kind to her. But
having given the rein to her lively fancy, it galloped away with her at
a great pace; and common sense, being rather weakened by a long course
of romance writing, did not come to the rescue. As usual, Beth lay on
the sofa, and Laurie sat in a low chair close by, amusing her with all
sorts of gossip; for she depended on her weekly "spin," and he never
disappointed her. But that evening, Jo fancied that Beth's eyes rested
on the lively, dark face beside her with peculiar pleasure, and that she
listened with intense interest to an account of some exciting
cricket-match, though the phrases, "caught off a tice," "stumped off his
ground," and "the leg hit for three," were as intelligible to her as
Sanscrit. She also fancied, having set her heart upon seeing it, that
she saw a certain increase of gentleness in Laurie's manner, that he
dropped his voice now and then, laughed less than usual, was a little
absent-minded, and settled the afghan over Beth's feet with an assiduity
that was really almost tender.

"Who knows? stranger things have happened," thought Jo, as she fussed
about the room. "She will make quite an angel of him, and he will make
life delightfully easy and pleasant for the dear, if they only love each
other. I don't see how he can help it; and I do believe he would if the
rest of us were out of the way."

As every one _was_ out of the way but herself, Jo began to feel that
she ought to dispose of herself with all speed. But where should she go?
and burning to lay herself upon the shrine of sisterly devotion, she sat
down to settle that point.

Now, the old sofa was a regular patriarch of a sofa,--long, broad,
well-cushioned, and low; a trifle shabby, as well it might be, for the
girls had slept and sprawled on it as babies, fished over the back, rode
on the arms, and had menageries under it as children, and rested tired
heads, dreamed dreams, and listened to tender talk on it as young women.
They all loved it, for it was a family refuge, and one corner had always
been Jo's favorite lounging-place. Among the many pillows that adorned
the venerable couch was one, hard, round, covered with prickly
horsehair, and furnished with a knobby button at each end; this
repulsive pillow was her especial property, being used as a weapon of
defence, a barricade, or a stern preventive of too much slumber.

Laurie knew this pillow well, and had cause to regard it with deep
aversion, having been unmercifully pummelled with it in former days,
when romping was allowed, and now frequently debarred by it from taking
the seat he most coveted, next to Jo in the sofa corner. If "the
sausage" as they called it, stood on end, it was a sign that he might
approach and repose; but if it lay flat across the sofa, woe to the man,
woman, or child who dared disturb it! That evening Jo forgot to
barricade her corner, and had not been in her seat five minutes, before
a massive form appeared beside her, and, with both arms spread over the
sofa-back, both long legs stretched out before him, Laurie exclaimed,
with a sigh of satisfaction,--

"Now, _this_ is filling at the price."

           [Illustration: Now, this is filling at the price]

"No slang," snapped Jo, slamming down the pillow. But it was too late,
there was no room for it; and, coasting on to the floor, it disappeared
in a most mysterious manner.

"Come, Jo, don't be thorny. After studying himself to a skeleton all the
week, a fellow deserves petting, and ought to get it."

"Beth will pet you; I'm busy."

"No, she's not to be bothered with me; but you like that sort of thing,
unless you've suddenly lost your taste for it. Have you? Do you hate
your boy, and want to fire pillows at him?"

Anything more wheedlesome than that touching appeal was seldom heard,
but Jo quenched "her boy" by turning on him with the stern query,--

"How many bouquets have you sent Miss Randal this week?"

"Not one, upon my word. She's engaged. Now then."

"I'm glad of it; that's one of your foolish extravagances,--sending
flowers and things to girls for whom you don't care two pins," continued
Jo reprovingly.

"Sensible girls, for whom I do care whole papers of pins, won't let me
send them 'flowers and things,' so what can I do? My feelings must have
a _went_."

"Mother doesn't approve of flirting, even in fun; and you do flirt
desperately, Teddy."

"I'd give anything if I could answer, 'So do you.' As I can't, I'll
merely say that I don't see any harm in that pleasant little game, if
all parties understand that it's only play."

"Well, it does look pleasant, but I can't learn how it's done. I've
tried, because one feels awkward in company, not to do as everybody else
is doing; but I don't seem to get on," said Jo, forgetting to play
Mentor.

"Take lessons of Amy; she has a regular talent for it."

"Yes, she does it very prettily, and never seems to go too far. I
suppose it's natural to some people to please without trying, and others
to always say and do the wrong thing in the wrong place."

"I'm glad you can't flirt; it's really refreshing to see a sensible,
straightforward girl, who can be jolly and kind without making a fool of
herself. Between ourselves, Jo, some of the girls I know really do go on
at such a rate I'm ashamed of them. They don't mean any harm, I'm sure;
but if they knew how we fellows talked about them afterward, they'd mend
their ways, I fancy."

"They do the same; and, as their tongues are the sharpest, you fellows
get the worst of it, for you are as silly as they, every bit. If you
behaved properly, they would; but, knowing you like their nonsense, they
keep it up, and then you blame them."

"Much you know about it, ma'am," said Laurie, in a superior tone. "We
don't like romps and flirts, though we may act as if we did sometimes.
The pretty, modest girls are never talked about, except respectfully,
among gentlemen. Bless your innocent soul! If you could be in my place
for a month you'd see things that would astonish you a trifle. Upon my
word, when I see one of those harum-scarum girls, I always want to say
with our friend Cock Robin,--

        "'Out upon you, fie upon you,
           Bold-faced jig!'"

It was impossible to help laughing at the funny conflict between
Laurie's chivalrous reluctance to speak ill of womankind, and his very
natural dislike of the unfeminine folly of which fashionable society
showed him many samples. Jo knew that "young Laurence" was regarded as a
most eligible _parti_ by worldly mammas, was much smiled upon by their
daughters, and flattered enough by ladies of all ages to make a coxcomb
of him; so she watched him rather jealously, fearing he would be spoilt,
and rejoiced more than she confessed to find that he still believed in
modest girls. Returning suddenly to her admonitory tone, she said,
dropping her voice, "If you _must_ have a 'went,' Teddy, go and devote
yourself to one of the 'pretty, modest girls' whom you do respect, and
not waste your time with the silly ones."

"You really advise it?" and Laurie looked at her with an odd mixture of
anxiety and merriment in his face.

"Yes, I do; but you'd better wait till you are through college, on the
whole, and be fitting yourself for the place meantime. You're not half
good enough for--well, whoever the modest girl maybe," and Jo looked a
little queer likewise, for a name had almost escaped her.

"That I'm not!" acquiesced Laurie, with an expression of humility quite
new to him, as he dropped his eyes, and absently wound Jo's apron-tassel
round his finger.

"Mercy on us, this will never do," thought Jo; adding aloud, "Go and
sing to me. I'm dying for some music, and always like yours."

"I'd rather stay here, thank you."

"Well, you can't; there isn't room. Go and make yourself useful, since
you are too big to be ornamental. I thought you hated to be tied to a
woman's apron-string?" retorted Jo, quoting certain rebellious words of
his own.

"Ah, that depends on who wears the apron!" and Laurie gave an audacious
tweak at the tassel.

"Are you going?" demanded Jo, diving for the pillow.

He fled at once, and the minute it was well "Up with the bonnets of
bonnie Dundee," she slipped away, to return no more till the young
gentleman had departed in high dudgeon.

          [Illustration: Up with the Bonnets of Bonnie Dundee]

Jo lay long awake that night, and was just dropping off when the sound
of a stifled sob made her fly to Beth's bedside, with the anxious
inquiry, "What is it, dear?"

"I thought you were asleep," sobbed Beth.

"Is it the old pain, my precious?"

"No; it's a new one; but I can bear it," and Beth tried to check her
tears.

"Tell me all about it, and let me cure it as I often did the other."

"You can't; there is no cure." There Beth's voice gave way, and,
clinging to her sister, she cried so despairingly that Jo was
frightened.

"Where is it? Shall I call mother?"

Beth did not answer the first question; but in the dark one hand went
involuntarily to her heart, as if the pain were there; with the other
she held Jo fast, whispering eagerly, "No, no, don't call her, don't
tell her. I shall be better soon. Lie down here and 'poor' my head. I'll
be quiet, and go to sleep; indeed I will."

Jo obeyed; but as her hand went softly to and fro across Beth's hot
forehead and wet eyelids, her heart was very full, and she longed to
speak. But young as she was, Jo had learned that hearts, like flowers,
cannot be rudely handled, but must open naturally; so, though she
believed she knew the cause of Beth's new pain, she only said, in her
tenderest tone, "Does anything trouble you, deary?"

"Yes, Jo," after a long pause.

"Wouldn't it comfort you to tell me what it is?"

"Not now, not yet."

"Then I won't ask; but remember, Bethy, that mother and Jo are always
glad to hear and help you, if they can."

"I know it. I'll tell you by and by."

"Is the pain better now?"

"Oh, yes, much better; you are so comfortable, Jo!"

"Go to sleep, dear; I'll stay with you."

So cheek to cheek they fell asleep, and on the morrow Beth seemed quite
herself again; for at eighteen, neither heads nor hearts ache long, and
a loving word can medicine most ills.

But Jo had made up her mind, and, after pondering over a project for
some days, she confided it to her mother.

"You asked me the other day what my wishes were. I'll tell you one of
them, Marmee," she began, as they sat alone together. "I want to go away
somewhere this winter for a change."

"Why, Jo?" and her mother looked up quickly, as if the words suggested a
double meaning.

With her eyes on her work, Jo answered soberly, "I want something new; I
feel restless, and anxious to be seeing, doing, and learning more than I
am. I brood too much over my own small affairs, and need stirring up,
so, as I can be spared this winter, I'd like to hop a little way, and
try my wings."

"Where will you hop?"

"To New York. I had a bright idea yesterday, and this is it. You know
Mrs. Kirke wrote to you for some respectable young person to teach her
children and sew. It's rather hard to find just the thing, but I think I
should suit if I tried."

"My dear, go out to service in that great boarding-house!" and Mrs.
March looked surprised, but not displeased.

"It's not exactly going out to service; for Mrs. Kirke is your
friend,--the kindest soul that ever lived,--and would make things
pleasant for me, I know. Her family is separate from the rest, and no
one knows me there. Don't care if they do; it's honest work, and I'm not
ashamed of it."

"Nor I; but your writing?"

"All the better for the change. I shall see and hear new things, get new
ideas, and, even if I haven't much time there, I shall bring home
quantities of material for my rubbish."

"I have no doubt of it; but are these your only reasons for this sudden
fancy?"

"No, mother."

"May I know the others?"

Jo looked up and Jo looked down, then said slowly, with sudden color in
her cheeks, "It may be vain and wrong to say it, but--I'm afraid--Laurie
is getting too fond of me."

"Then you don't care for him in the way it is evident he begins to care
for you?" and Mrs. March looked anxious as she put the question.

"Mercy, no! I love the dear boy, as I always have, and am immensely
proud of him; but as for anything more, it's out of the question."

"I'm glad of that, Jo."

"Why, please?"

"Because, dear, I don't think you suited to one another. As friends you
are very happy, and your frequent quarrels soon blow over; but I fear
you would both rebel if you were mated for life. You are too much alike
and too fond of freedom, not to mention hot tempers and strong wills, to
get on happily together, in a relation which needs infinite patience and
forbearance, as well as love."

"That's just the feeling I had, though I couldn't express it. I'm glad
you think he is only beginning to care for me. It would trouble me sadly
to make him unhappy; for I couldn't fall in love with the dear old
fellow merely out of gratitude, could I?"

"You are sure of his feeling for you?"

The color deepened in Jo's cheeks, as she answered, with the look of
mingled pleasure, pride, and pain which young girls wear when speaking
of first lovers,--

"I'm afraid it is so, mother; he hasn't said anything, but he looks a
great deal. I think I had better go away before it comes to anything."

"I agree with you, and if it can be managed you shall go."

Jo looked relieved, and, after a pause, said, smiling, "How Mrs. Moffat
would wonder at your want of management, if she knew; and how she will
rejoice that Annie still may hope."

"Ah, Jo, mothers may differ in their management, but the hope is the
same in all,--the desire to see their children happy. Meg is so, and I
am content with her success. You I leave to enjoy your liberty till you
tire of it; for only then will you find that there is something sweeter.
Amy is my chief care now, but her good sense will help her. For Beth, I
indulge no hopes except that she may be well. By the way, she seems
brighter this last day or two. Have you spoken to her?"

"Yes; she owned she had a trouble, and promised to tell me by and by. I
said no more, for I think I know it;" and Jo told her little story.

Mrs. March shook her head, and did not take so romantic a view of the
case, but looked grave, and repeated her opinion that, for Laurie's
sake, Jo should go away for a time.

"Let us say nothing about it to him till the plan is settled; then I'll
run away before he can collect his wits and be tragical. Beth must think
I'm going to please myself, as I am, for I can't talk about Laurie to
her; but she can pet and comfort him after I'm gone, and so cure him of
this romantic notion. He's been through so many little trials of the
sort, he's used to it, and will soon get over his love-lornity."

Jo spoke hopefully, but could not rid herself of the foreboding fear
that this "little trial" would be harder than the others, and that
Laurie would not get over his "love-lornity" as easily as heretofore.

The plan was talked over in a family council, and agreed upon; for Mrs.
Kirke gladly accepted Jo, and promised to make a pleasant home for her.
The teaching would render her independent; and such leisure as she got
might be made profitable by writing, while the new scenes and society
would be both useful and agreeable. Jo liked the prospect and was eager
to be gone, for the home-nest was growing too narrow for her restless
nature and adventurous spirit. When all was settled, with fear and
trembling she told Laurie; but to her surprise he took it very quietly.
He had been graver than usual of late, but very pleasant; and, when
jokingly accused of turning over a new leaf, he answered soberly, "So I
am; and I mean this one shall stay turned."

Jo was very much relieved that one of his virtuous fits should come on
just then, and made her preparations with a lightened heart,--for Beth
seemed more cheerful,--and hoped she was doing the best for all.

"One thing I leave to your especial care," she said, the night before
she left.

"You mean your papers?" asked Beth.

"No, my boy. Be very good to him, won't you?"

"Of course I will; but I can't fill your place, and he'll miss you
sadly."

"It won't hurt him; so remember, I leave him in your charge, to plague,
pet, and keep in order."

"I'll do my best, for your sake," promised Beth, wondering why Jo looked
at her so queerly.

When Laurie said "Good-by," he whispered significantly, "It won't do a
bit of good, Jo. My eye is on you; so mind what you do, or I'll come and
bring you home."

  [Illustration: I amused myself by dropping gingerbread nuts over the
                                 seat]

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

completion: Tender Troubles Marmee notices that something is troubling Beth, for she has been quite sad, and asks Jo to find out Beth's secret. After observing her, Jo decides that Beth is in love with Laurie. Jo insists to herself that she will make Laurie love Beth back. In fact, Laurie has been trying to express his affections toward Jo, but she ignores or denies him. Jo hopes Laurie might learn to love Beth, particularly if Jo went away. While pondering what to do, Jo finds herself in a conversation with Laurie about flirting, which he does quite a bit, but does not admire in excess in others, and at which Jo is hopeless. Jo advises Laurie to devote himself to a modest girl - meaning Beth - once he is through with college and deserving of her. Laurie, thinking Jo means herself, is encouraged and humbled. He starts behaving more seriously and speaking of "turning a new leaf. That evening, Jo finds Beth crying herself to sleep over a new pain. She will not tell Jo what it is, for Jo can do nothing to help, but promises to tell her in time. Jo, believing Beth's heart is aching over Laurie, comforts her. The next day, Jo decides to spend the winter working as a teacher in a boardinghouse in New York for the daughters of Mrs. Kirke, one of Marmee's friends. Jo tells Marmee that she feels Laurie is getting too fond of her, and she does not return the feelings. Marmee is thankful for Jo's feelings, as she feels the two would be too strong-willed a match. Jo divulges that she thinks Beth might like Laurie, which Marmee does not believe, but still feels Jo should go away for Laurie's sake. Jo asks Beth to look after Laurie for her. Laurie simply tells Jo that going away will not do any good


prompt:
Chapter: XXXIII. JO'S JOURNAL.

                                                "NEW YORK, November.

    "DEAR MARMEE AND BETH,--

    "I'm going to write you a regular volume, for I've got heaps to
    tell, though I'm not a fine young lady travelling on the
    continent. When I lost sight of father's dear old face, I felt a
    trifle blue, and might have shed a briny drop or two, if an
    Irish lady with four small children, all crying more or less,
    hadn't diverted my mind; for I amused myself by dropping
    gingerbread nuts over the seat every time they opened their
    mouths to roar.

    "Soon the sun came out, and taking it as a good omen, I cleared
    up likewise, and enjoyed my journey with all my heart.

    "Mrs. Kirke welcomed me so kindly I felt at home at once, even
    in that big house full of strangers. She gave me a funny little
    sky-parlor--all she had; but there is a stove in it, and a nice
    table in a sunny window, so I can sit here and write whenever I
    like. A fine view and a church-tower opposite atone for the many
    stairs, and I took a fancy to my den on the spot. The nursery,
    where I am to teach and sew, is a pleasant room next Mrs.
    Kirke's private parlor, and the two little girls are pretty
    children,--rather spoilt, I fancy, but they took to me after
    telling them 'The Seven Bad Pigs;' and I've no doubt I shall
    make a model governess.

    "I am to have my meals with the children, if I prefer it to the
    great table, and for the present I do, for I _am_ bashful,
    though no one will believe it.

    "'Now, my dear, make yourself at home,' said Mrs. K. in her
    motherly way; 'I'm on the drive from morning to night, as you
    may suppose with such a family; but a great anxiety will be off
    my mind if I know the children are safe with you. My rooms are
    always open to you, and your own shall be as comfortable as I
    can make it. There are some pleasant people in the house if you
    feel sociable, and your evenings are always free. Come to me if
    anything goes wrong, and be as happy as you can. There's the
    tea-bell; I must run and change my cap;' and off she bustled,
    leaving me to settle myself in my new nest.

    "As I went downstairs, soon after, I saw something I liked. The
    flights are very long in this tall house, and as I stood waiting
    at the head of the third one for a little servant girl to lumber
    up, I saw a gentleman come along behind her, take the heavy hod
    of coal out of her hand, carry it all the way up, put it down at
    a door near by, and walk away, saying, with a kind nod and a
    foreign accent,--

    "'It goes better so. The little back is too young to haf such
    heaviness.'

    "Wasn't it good of him? I like such things, for, as father says,
    trifles show character. When I mentioned it to Mrs. K., that
    evening, she laughed, and said,--

    "'That must have been Professor Bhaer; he's always doing things
    of that sort.'

    "Mrs. K. told me he was from Berlin; very learned and good, but
    poor as a church-mouse, and gives lessons to support himself and
    two little orphan nephews whom he is educating here, according
    to the wishes of his sister, who married an American. Not a very
    romantic story, but it interested me; and I was glad to hear
    that Mrs. K. lends him her parlor for some of his scholars.
    There is a glass door between it and the nursery, and I mean to
    peep at him, and then I'll tell you how he looks. He's almost
    forty, so it's no harm, Marmee.

    "After tea and a go-to-bed romp with the little girls, I
    attacked the big work-basket, and had a quiet evening chatting
    with my new friend. I shall keep a journal-letter, and send it
    once a week; so good-night, and more to-morrow."

                                                     "_Tuesday Eve._

    "Had a lively time in my seminary, this morning, for the
    children acted like Sancho; and at one time I really thought I
    should shake them all round. Some good angel inspired me to try
    gymnastics, and I kept it up till they were glad to sit down and
    keep still. After luncheon, the girl took them out for a walk,
    and I went to my needle-work, like little Mabel, 'with a willing
    mind.' I was thanking my stars that I'd learned to make nice
    button-holes, when the parlor-door opened and shut, and some one
    began to hum,--

                         'Kennst du das land,'

    like a big bumble-bee. It was dreadfully improper, I know, but I
    couldn't resist the temptation; and lifting one end of the
    curtain before the glass door, I peeped in. Professor Bhaer was
    there; and while he arranged his books, I took a good look at
    him. A regular German,--rather stout, with brown hair tumbled
    all over his head, a bushy beard, good nose, the kindest eyes I
    ever saw, and a splendid big voice that does one's ears good,
    after our sharp or slipshod American gabble. His clothes were
    rusty, his hands were large, and he hadn't a really handsome
    feature in his face, except his beautiful teeth; yet I liked
    him, for he had a fine head; his linen was very nice, and he
    looked like a gentleman, though two buttons were off his coat,
    and there was a patch on one shoe. He looked sober in spite of
    his humming, till he went to the window to turn the hyacinth
    bulbs toward the sun, and stroke the cat, who received him like
    an old friend. Then he smiled; and when a tap came at the door,
    called out in a loud, brisk tone,--

    "'Herein!'

    "I was just going to run, when I caught sight of a morsel of a
    child carrying a big book, and stopped to see what was going on.

    "'Me wants my Bhaer,' said the mite, slamming down her book, and
    running to meet him.

    "'Thou shalt haf thy Bhaer; come, then, and take a goot hug from
    him, my Tina,' said the Professor, catching her up, with a
    laugh, and holding her so high over his head that she had to
    stoop her little face to kiss him.

                [Illustration: Thou shalt haf thy Bhaer]

    "'Now me mus tuddy my lessin,' went on the funny little thing;
    so he put her up at the table, opened the great dictionary she
    had brought, and gave her a paper and pencil, and she scribbled
    away, turning a leaf now and then, and passing her little fat
    finger down the page, as if finding a word, so soberly that I
    nearly betrayed myself by a laugh, while Mr. Bhaer stood
    stroking her pretty hair, with a fatherly look, that made me
    think she must be his own, though she looked more French than
    German.

    "Another knock and the appearance of two young ladies sent me
    back to my work, and there I virtuously remained through all the
    noise and gabbling that went on next door. One of the girls kept
    laughing affectedly, and saying 'Now Professor,' in a
    coquettish tone, and the other pronounced her German with an
    accent that must have made it hard for him to keep sober.

    "Both seemed to try his patience sorely; for more than once I
    heard him say emphatically, 'No, no, it is _not_ so; you haf not
    attend to what I say;' and once there was a loud rap, as if he
    struck the table with his book, followed by the despairing
    exclamation, 'Prut! it all goes bad this day.'

    "Poor man, I pitied him; and when the girls were gone, took just
    one more peep, to see if he survived it. He seemed to have
    thrown himself back in his chair, tired out, and sat there with
    his eyes shut till the clock struck two, when he jumped up, put
    his books in his pocket, as if ready for another lesson, and,
    taking little Tina, who had fallen asleep on the sofa, in his
    arms, he carried her quietly away. I fancy he has a hard life of
    it.

    "Mrs. Kirke asked me if I wouldn't go down to the five o'clock
    dinner; and, feeling a little bit homesick, I thought I would,
    just to see what sort of people are under the same roof with me.
    So I made myself respectable, and tried to slip in behind Mrs.
    Kirke; but as she is short, and I'm tall, my efforts at
    concealment were rather a failure. She gave me a seat by her,
    and after my face cooled off, I plucked up courage, and looked
    about me. The long table was full, and every one intent on
    getting their dinner,--the gentlemen especially, who seemed to
    be eating on time, for they _bolted_ in every sense of the word,
    vanishing as soon as they were done. There was the usual
    assortment of young men absorbed in themselves; young couples
    absorbed in each other; married ladies in their babies, and old
    gentlemen in politics. I don't think I shall care to have much
    to do with any of them, except one sweet-faced maiden lady, who
    looks as if she had something in her.

    "Cast away at the very bottom of the table was the Professor,
    shouting answers to the questions of a very inquisitive, deaf
    old gentleman on one side, and talking philosophy with a
    Frenchman on the other. If Amy had been here, she'd have turned
    her back on him forever, because, sad to relate, he had a great
    appetite, and shovelled in his dinner in a manner which would
    have horrified 'her ladyship.' I didn't mind, for I like 'to see
    folks eat with a relish,' as Hannah says, and the poor man must
    have needed a deal of food after teaching idiots all day.

    "As I went upstairs after dinner, two of the young men were
    settling their hats before the hall-mirror, and I heard one say
    low to the other, 'Who's the new party?'

    "'Governess, or something of that sort.'

    "'What the deuce is she at our table for?'

    "'Friend of the old lady's.'

    "'Handsome head, but no style.'

    "'Not a bit of it. Give us a light and come on.'

    "I felt angry at first, and then I didn't care, for a governess
    is as good as a clerk, and I've got sense, if I haven't style,
    which is more than some people have, judging from the remarks of
    the elegant beings who clattered away, smoking like bad
    chimneys. I hate ordinary people!"

                                                        "_Thursday._

    "Yesterday was a quiet day, spent in teaching, sewing, and
    writing in my little room, which is very cosey, with a light and
    fire. I picked up a few bits of news, and was introduced to the
    Professor. It seems that Tina is the child of the Frenchwoman
    who does the fine ironing in the laundry here. The little thing
    has lost her heart to Mr. Bhaer, and follows him about the house
    like a dog whenever he is at home, which delights him, as he is
    very fond of children, though a 'bacheldore.' Kitty and Minnie
    Kirke likewise regard him with affection, and tell all sorts of
    stories about the plays he invents, the presents he brings, and
    the splendid tales he tells. The young men quiz him, it seems,
    call him Old Fritz, Lager Beer, Ursa Major, and make all manner
    of jokes on his name. But he enjoys it like a boy, Mrs. K. says,
    and takes it so good-naturedly that they all like him, in spite
    of his foreign ways.

    "The maiden lady is a Miss Norton,--rich, cultivated, and kind.
    She spoke to me at dinner to-day (for I went to table again,
    it's such fun to watch people), and asked me to come and see her
    at her room. She has fine books and pictures, knows interesting
    persons, and seems friendly; so I shall make myself agreeable,
    for I _do_ want to get into good society, only it isn't the same
    sort that Amy likes.

    "I was in our parlor last evening, when Mr. Bhaer came in with
    some newspapers for Mrs. Kirke. She wasn't there, but Minnie,
    who is a little old woman, introduced me very prettily: 'This is
    mamma's friend, Miss March.'

    "'Yes; and she's jolly and we like her lots,' added Kitty, who
    is an _enfant terrible_.

    "We both bowed, and then we laughed, for the prim introduction
    and the blunt addition were rather a comical contrast.

    "'Ah, yes, I hear these naughty ones go to vex you, Mees Marsch.
    If so again, call at me and I come,' he said, with a threatening
    frown that delighted the little wretches.

    "I promised I would, and he departed; but it seems as if I was
    doomed to see a good deal of him, for to-day, as I passed his
    door on my way out, by accident I knocked against it with my
    umbrella. It flew open, and there he stood in his dressing gown,
    with a big blue sock on one hand, and a darning-needle in the
    other; he didn't seem at all ashamed of it, for when I explained
    and hurried on, he waved his hand, sock and all, saying in his
    loud, cheerful way,--

            [Illustration: He waved his hand, sock and all]

    "'You haf a fine day to make your walk. _Bon voyage,
    mademoiselle._'

    "I laughed all the way downstairs; but it was a little pathetic,
    also, to think of the poor man having to mend his own clothes.
    The German gentlemen embroider, I know; but darning hose is
    another thing, and not so pretty."

                                                        "_Saturday._

    "Nothing has happened to write about, except a call on Miss
    Norton, who has a room full of lovely things, and who was very
    charming, for she showed me all her treasures, and asked me if I
    would sometimes go with her to lectures and concerts, as her
    escort,--if I enjoyed them. She put it as a favor, but I'm sure
    Mrs. Kirke has told her about us, and she does it out of
    kindness to me. I'm as proud as Lucifer, but such favors from
    such people don't burden me, and I accepted gratefully.

    "When I got back to the nursery there was such an uproar in the
    parlor that I looked in; and there was Mr. Bhaer down on his
    hands and knees, with Tina on his back, Kitty leading him with a
    jump-rope, and Minnie feeding two small boys with seed-cakes, as
    they roared and ramped in cages built of chairs.

    "'We are playing _nargerie_,' explained Kitty.

    "'Dis is mine effalunt!' added Tina, holding on by the
    Professor's hair.

                  [Illustration: Dis is mine effalunt]

    "'Mamma always allows us to do what we like Saturday afternoon,
    when Franz and Emil come, doesn't she, Mr. Bhaer?' said
    Minnie.

    "The 'effalunt' sat up, looking as much in earnest as any of
    them, and said soberly to me,--

    "'I gif you my wort it is so. If we make too large a noise you
    shall say "Hush!" to us, and we go more softly.'

    "I promised to do so, but left the door open, and enjoyed the
    fun as much as they did,--for a more glorious frolic I never
    witnessed. They played tag and soldiers, danced and sung, and
    when it began to grow dark they all piled on to the sofa about
    the Professor, while he told charming fairy stories of the
    storks on the chimney-tops, and the little 'kobolds,' who ride
    the snow-flakes as they fall. I wish Americans were as simple
    and natural as Germans, don't you?

    "I'm so fond of writing, I should go spinning on forever if
    motives of economy didn't stop me, for though I've used thin
    paper and written fine, I tremble to think of the stamps this
    long letter will need. Pray forward Amy's as soon as you can
    spare them. My small news will sound very flat after her
    splendors, but you will like them, I know. Is Teddy studying so
    hard that he can't find time to write to his friends? Take good
    care of him for me, Beth, and tell me all about the babies, and
    give heaps of love to every one.

                                "From your faithful              JO.

    "P. S. On reading over my letter it strikes me as rather Bhaery;
    but I am always interested in odd people, and I really had
    nothing else to write about. Bless you!"

                                                         "DECEMBER.

    "MY PRECIOUS BETSEY,--

    "As this is to be a scribble-scrabble letter, I direct it to
    you, for it may amuse you, and give you some idea of my goings
    on; for, though quiet, they are rather amusing, for which, oh,
    be joyful! After what Amy would call Herculaneum efforts, in the
    way of mental and moral agriculture, my young ideas begin to
    shoot and my little twigs to bend as I could wish. They are not
    so interesting to me as Tina and the boys, but I do my duty by
    them, and they are fond of me. Franz and Emil are jolly little
    lads, quite after my own heart; for the mixture of German and
    American spirit in them produces a constant state of
    effervescence. Saturday afternoons are riotous times, whether
    spent in the house or out; for on pleasant days they all go to
    walk, like a seminary, with the Professor and myself to keep
    order; and then such fun!

    "We are very good friends now, and I've begun to take lessons. I
    really couldn't help it, and it all came about in such a droll
    way that I must tell you. To begin at the beginning, Mrs. Kirke
    called to me, one day, as I passed Mr. Bhaer's room, where she
    was rummaging.

    "'Did you ever see such a den, my dear? Just come and help me
    put these books to rights, for I've turned everything upside
    down, trying to discover what he has done with the six new
    handkerchiefs I gave him not long ago.'

    "I went in, and while we worked I looked about me, for it was 'a
    den,' to be sure. Books and papers everywhere; a broken
    meerschaum, and an old flute over the mantel-piece as if done
    with; a ragged bird, without any tail, chirped on one
    window-seat, and a box of white mice adorned the other;
    half-finished boats and bits of string lay among the
    manuscripts; dirty little boots stood drying before the fire;
    and traces of the dearly beloved boys, for whom he makes a slave
    of himself, were to be seen all over the room. After a grand
    rummage three of the missing articles were found,--one over the
    bird-cage, one covered with ink, and a third burnt brown, having
    been used as a holder.

    "'Such a man!' laughed good-natured Mrs. K., as she put the
    relics in the rag-bag. 'I suppose the others are torn up to rig
    ships, bandage cut fingers, or make kite-tails. It's dreadful,
    but I can't scold him: he's so absent-minded and good-natured,
    he lets those boys ride over him rough-shod. I agreed to do his
    washing and mending, but he forgets to give out his things and I
    forget to look them over, so he comes to a sad pass sometimes.'

    "'Let me mend them,' said I. 'I don't mind it, and he needn't
    know. I'd like to,--he's so kind to me about bringing my letters
    and lending books.'

    "So I have got his things in order, and knit heels into two
    pairs of the socks,--for they were boggled out of shape with his
    queer darns. Nothing was said, and I hoped he wouldn't find it
    out, but one day last week he caught me at it. Hearing the
    lessons he gives to others has interested and amused me so much
    that I took a fancy to learn; for Tina runs in and out, leaving
    the door open, and I can hear. I had been sitting near this
    door, finishing off the last sock, and trying to understand what
    he said to a new scholar, who is as stupid as I am. The girl had
    gone, and I thought he had also, it was so still, and I was
    busily gabbling over a verb, and rocking to and fro in a most
    absurd way, when a little crow made me look up, and there was
    Mr. Bhaer looking and laughing quietly, while he made signs to
    Tina not to betray him.

    "'So!' he said, as I stopped and stared like a goose, 'you peep
    at me, I peep at you, and that is not bad; but see, I am not
    pleasanting when I say, haf you a wish for German?'

    "'Yes; but you are too busy. I am too stupid to learn,' I
    blundered out, as red as a peony.

    "'Prut! we will make the time, and we fail not to find the
    sense. At efening I shall gif a little lesson with much
    gladness; for, look you, Mees Marsch, I haf this debt to pay,'
    and he pointed to my work. 'Yes, they say to one another, these
    so kind ladies, "he is a stupid old fellow; he will see not what
    we do; he will never opserve that his sock-heels go not in holes
    any more, he will think his buttons grow out new when they fall,
    and believe that strings make theirselves." Ah! but I haf an
    eye, and I see much. I haf a heart, and I feel the thanks for
    this. Come, a little lesson then and now, or no more good fairy
    works for me and mine.'

    "Of course I couldn't say anything after that, and as it really
    is a splendid opportunity, I made the bargain, and we began. I
    took four lessons, and then I stuck fast in a grammatical bog.
    The Professor was very patient with me, but it must have been
    torment to him, and now and then he'd look at me with such an
    expression of mild despair that it was a toss-up with me whether
    to laugh or cry. I tried both ways; and when it came to a sniff
    of utter mortification and woe, he just threw the grammar on to
    the floor, and marched out of the room. I felt myself disgraced
    and deserted forever, but didn't blame him a particle, and was
    scrambling my papers together, meaning to rush upstairs and
    shake myself hard, when in he came, as brisk and beaming as if
    I'd covered myself with glory.

    "'Now we shall try a new way. You and I will read these pleasant
    little Märchen together, and dig no more in that dry book, that
    goes in the corner for making us trouble.'

    "He spoke so kindly, and opened Hans Andersen's fairy tales so
    invitingly before me, that I was more ashamed than ever, and
    went at my lesson in a neck-or-nothing style that seemed to
    amuse him immensely. I forgot my bashfulness, and pegged away
    (no other word will express it) with all my might, tumbling over
    long words, pronouncing according to the inspiration of the
    minute, and doing my very best. When I finished reading my first
    page, and stopped for breath, he clapped his hands and cried
    out, in his hearty way, 'Das ist gute! Now we go well! My turn.
    I do him in German; gif me your ear.' And away he went, rumbling
    out the words with his strong voice, and a relish which was good
    to see as well as hear. Fortunately the story was the 'Constant
    Tin Soldier,' which is droll, you know, so I could laugh,--and I
    did,--though I didn't understand half he read, for I couldn't
    help it, he was so earnest, I so excited, and the whole thing so
    comical.

    "After that we got on better, and now I read my lessons pretty
    well; for this way of studying suits me, and I can see that the
    grammar gets tucked into the tales and poetry as one gives pills
    in jelly. I like it very much, and he doesn't seem tired of it
    yet,--which is very good of him, isn't it? I mean to give him
    something on Christmas, for I dare not offer money. Tell me
    something nice, Marmee.

    "I'm glad Laurie seems so happy and busy, that he has given up
    smoking, and lets his hair grow. You see Beth manages him better
    than I did. I'm not jealous, dear; do your best, only don't make
    a saint of him. I'm afraid I couldn't like him without a spice
    of human naughtiness. Read him bits of my letters. I haven't
    time to write much, and that will do just as well. Thank Heaven
    Beth continues so comfortable."

                                                           "JANUARY.

    "A Happy New Year to you all, my dearest family, which of course
    includes Mr. L. and a young man by the name of Teddy. I can't
    tell you how much I enjoyed your Christmas bundle, for I didn't
    get it till night, and had given up hoping. Your letter came in
    the morning, but you said nothing about a parcel, meaning it
    for a surprise; so I was disappointed, for I'd had a 'kind of a
    feeling' that you wouldn't forget me. I felt a little low in my
    mind, as I sat up in my room, after tea; and when the big,
    muddy, battered-looking bundle was brought to me, I just hugged
    it, and pranced. It was so _homey_ and refreshing, that I sat
    down on the floor and read and looked and ate and laughed and
    cried, in my usual absurd way. The things were just what I
    wanted, and all the better for being made instead of bought.
    Beth's new 'ink-bib' was capital; and Hannah's box of hard
    gingerbread will be a treasure. I'll be sure and wear the nice
    flannels you sent, Marmee, and read carefully the books father
    has marked. Thank you all, heaps and heaps!

 [Illustration: I sat down upon the floor and read and looked and ate]

    "Speaking of books reminds me that I'm getting rich in that
    line for, on New Year's Day, Mr. Bhaer gave me a fine
    Shakespeare. It is one he values much, and I've often admired
    it, set up in the place of honor, with his German Bible, Plato,
    Homer, and Milton; so you may imagine how I felt when he
    brought it down, without its cover, and showed me my name in
    it, 'from my friend Friedrich Bhaer.'

    "'You say often you wish a library: here I gif you one; for
    between these lids (he meant covers) is many books in one. Read
    him well, and he will help you much; for the study of character
    in this book will help you to read it in the world and paint it
    with your pen.'

    "I thanked him as well as I could, and talk now about 'my
    library,' as if I had a hundred books. I never knew how much
    there was in Shakespeare before; but then I never had a Bhaer to
    explain it to me. Now _don't_ laugh at his horrid name; it isn't
    pronounced either Bear or Beer, as people _will_ say it, but
    something between the two, as only Germans can give it. I'm glad
    you both like what I tell you about him, and hope you will know
    him some day. Mother would admire his warm heart, father his
    wise head. I admire both, and feel rich in my new 'friend
    Friedrich Bhaer.'

    "Not having much money, or knowing what he'd like, I got several
    little things, and put them about the room, where he would find
    them unexpectedly. They were useful, pretty, or funny,--a new
    standish on his table, a little vase for his flower,--he always
    has one, or a bit of green in a glass, to keep him fresh, he
    says,--and a holder for his blower, so that he needn't burn up
    what Amy calls 'mouchoirs.' I made it like those Beth
    invented,--a big butterfly with a fat body, and black and yellow
    wings, worsted feelers, and bead eyes. It took his fancy
    immensely, and he put it on his mantel-piece as an article of
    _vertu_; so it was rather a failure after all. Poor as he is, he
    didn't forget a servant or a child in the house; and not a soul
    here, from the French laundry-woman to Miss Norton, forgot him.
    I was so glad of that.

    "They got up a masquerade, and had a gay time New Year's Eve. I
    didn't mean to go down, having no dress; but at the last minute,
    Mrs. Kirke remembered some old brocades, and Miss Norton lent me
    lace and feathers; so I dressed up as Mrs. Malaprop, and sailed
    in with a mask on. No one knew me, for I disguised my voice, and
    no one dreamed of the silent, haughty Miss March (for they think
    I am very stiff and cool, most of them; and so I am to
    whipper-snappers) could dance and dress, and burst out into a
    'nice derangement of epitaphs, like an allegory on the banks of
    the Nile.' I enjoyed it very much; and when we unmasked, it was
    fun to see them stare at me. I heard one of the young men tell
    another that he knew I'd been an actress; in fact, he thought he
    remembered seeing me at one of the minor theatres. Meg will
    relish that joke. Mr. Bhaer was Nick Bottom, and Tina was
    Titania,--a perfect little fairy in his arms. To see them dance
    was 'quite a landscape,' to use a Teddyism.

    "I had a very happy New Year, after all; and when I thought it
    over in my room, I felt as if I was getting on a little in spite
    of my many failures; for I'm cheerful all the time now, work
    with a will, and take more interest in other people than I used
    to, which is satisfactory. Bless you all! Ever your loving

                                                                JO."

                       [Illustration: Tail-piece]

           [Illustration: In the presence of three gentlemen]

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

completion: Jo's Journal Jo's letters describe her new home, a funny room in the boardinghouse, and her two pupils. Mrs. Kirke is quite kind, but busy, and Jo finds herself bashful in the big house. Jo observes Professor Bhaer, an older, poor German who tutors to support his nephews. As her pupils' nursery is next to Mr. Bhaer's study, she often listens to him humming Goethe or observes him teaching and playing with the children, doing kind things for the servants, and discussing philosophy with the young men. Jo also befriends Miss Norton, a rich gentlewoman at the house. Jo and the Professor become good friends, since they both have lively spirits and enjoy children and literature. Out of thanks for his kindness, Jo asks Mrs. Kirke if she might help with mending Mr. Bhaer's clothes, which he does himself, and in return, Mr. Bhaer gives her German lessons. At New Year's they exchange gifts, and their friendship flourishes beautifully. Jo is grateful for her friend, as she does not enjoy the "whippersnappers" in the house. At a masquerade ball, she goes down and is quite sociable and theatrical, and all are surprised at the unmasking that it was Jo all along