prompt:
Chapter: Though very happy in the social atmosphere about her, and very busy
with the daily work that earned her bread and made it sweeter for the
effort, Jo still found time for literary labors.  The purpose which now
took possession of her was a natural one to a poor and ambitious girl,
but the means she took to gain her end were not the best.  She saw that
money conferred power, money and power, therefore, she resolved to
have, not to be used for herself alone, but for those whom she loved
more than life.  The dream of filling home with comforts, giving Beth
everything she wanted, from strawberries in winter to an organ in her
bedroom, going abroad herself, and always having more than enough, so
that she might indulge in the luxury of charity, had been for years
Jo's most cherished castle in the air.

The prize-story experience had seemed to open a way which might, after
long traveling and much uphill work, lead to this delightful chateau en
Espagne.  But the novel disaster quenched her courage for a time, for
public opinion is a giant which has frightened stouter-hearted Jacks on
bigger beanstalks than hers. Like that immortal hero, she reposed
awhile after the first attempt, which resulted in a tumble and the
least lovely of the giant's treasures, if I remember rightly.  But the
'up again and take another' spirit was as strong in Jo as in Jack, so
she scrambled up on the shady side this time and got more booty, but
nearly left behind her what was far more precious than the moneybags.

She took to writing sensation stories, for in those dark ages, even
all-perfect America read rubbish.  She told no one, but concocted a
'thrilling tale', and boldly carried it herself to Mr. Dashwood, editor
of the Weekly Volcano.  She had never read Sartor Resartus, but she had
a womanly instinct that clothes possess an influence more powerful over
many than the worth of character or the magic of manners.  So she
dressed herself in her best, and trying to persuade herself that she
was neither excited nor nervous, bravely climbed two pairs of dark and
dirty stairs to find herself in a disorderly room, a cloud of cigar
smoke, and the presence of three gentlemen, sitting with their heels
rather higher than their hats, which articles of dress none of them
took the trouble to remove on her appearance.  Somewhat daunted by this
reception, Jo hesitated on the threshold, murmuring in much
embarrassment...

"Excuse me, I was looking for the Weekly Volcano office. I wished to
see Mr. Dashwood."

Down went the highest pair of heels, up rose the smokiest gentleman,
and carefully cherishing his cigar between his fingers, he advanced
with a nod and a countenance expressive of nothing but sleep.  Feeling
that she must get through the matter somehow, Jo produced her
manuscript and, blushing redder and redder with each sentence,
blundered out fragments of the little speech carefully prepared for the
occasion.

"A friend of mine desired me to offer--a story--just as an
experiment--would like your opinion--be glad to write more if this
suits."

While she blushed and blundered, Mr. Dashwood had taken the manuscript,
and was turning over the leaves with a pair of rather dirty fingers,
and casting critical glances up and down the neat pages.

"Not a first attempt, I take it?" observing that the pages were
numbered, covered only on one side, and not tied up with a ribbon--sure
sign of a novice.

"No, sir.  She has had some experience, and got a prize for a tale in
the _Blarneystone Banner_."

"Oh, did she?" and Mr. Dashwood gave Jo a quick look, which seemed to
take note of everything she had on, from the bow in her bonnet to the
buttons on her boots.  "Well, you can leave it, if you like.  We've
more of this sort of thing on hand than we know what to do with at
present, but I'll run my eye over it, and give you an answer next week."

Now, Jo did _not_ like to leave it, for Mr. Dashwood didn't suit her at
all, but, under the circumstances, there was nothing for her to do but
bow and walk away, looking particularly tall and dignified, as she was
apt to do when nettled or abashed. Just then she was both, for it was
perfectly evident from the knowing glances exchanged among the
gentlemen that her little fiction of 'my friend' was considered a good
joke, and a laugh, produced by some inaudible remark of the editor, as
he closed the door, completed her discomfiture.  Half resolving never
to return, she went home, and worked off her irritation by stitching
pinafores vigorously, and in an hour or two was cool enough to laugh
over the scene and long for next week.

When she went again, Mr. Dashwood was alone, whereat she rejoiced.  Mr.
Dashwood was much wider awake than before, which was agreeable, and Mr.
Dashwood was not too deeply absorbed in a cigar to remember his
manners, so the second interview was much more comfortable than the
first.

"We'll take this (editors never say I), if you don't object to a few
alterations.  It's too long, but omitting the passages I've marked will
make it just the right length," he said, in a businesslike tone.

Jo hardly knew her own MS.  again, so crumpled and underscored were its
pages and paragraphs, but feeling as a tender parent might on being
asked to cut off her baby's legs in order that it might fit into a new
cradle, she looked at the marked passages and was surprised to find
that all the moral reflections--which she had carefully put in as
ballast for much romance--had been stricken out.

"But, Sir, I thought every story should have some sort of a moral, so I
took care to have a few of my sinners repent."

Mr. Dashwoods's editorial gravity relaxed into a smile, for Jo had
forgotten her 'friend', and spoken as only an author could.

"People want to be amused, not preached at, you know.  Morals don't
sell nowadays."  Which was not quite a correct statement, by the way.

"You think it would do with these alterations, then?"

"Yes, it's a new plot, and pretty well worked up--language good, and so
on," was Mr. Dashwood's affable reply.

"What do you--that is, what compensation--" began Jo, not exactly
knowing how to express herself.

"Oh, yes, well, we give from twenty-five to thirty for things of this
sort.  Pay when it comes out," returned Mr. Dashwood, as if that point
had escaped him.  Such trifles do escape the editorial mind, it is said.

"Very well, you can have it," said Jo, handing back the story with a
satisfied air, for after the dollar-a-column work, even twenty-five
seemed good pay.

"Shall I tell my friend you will take another if she has one better
than this?" asked Jo, unconscious of her little slip of the tongue, and
emboldened by her success.

"Well, we'll look at it.  Can't promise to take it.  Tell her to make
it short and spicy, and never mind the moral.  What name would your
friend like to put on it?" in a careless tone.

"None at all, if you please, she doesn't wish her name to appear and
has no nom de plume," said Jo, blushing in spite of herself.

"Just as she likes, of course.  The tale will be out next week. Will
you call for the money, or shall I send it?" asked Mr. Dashwood, who
felt a natural desire to know who his new contributor might be.

"I'll call.  Good morning, Sir."

As she departed, Mr. Dashwood put up his feet, with the graceful
remark, "Poor and proud, as usual, but she'll do."

Following Mr. Dashwood's directions, and making Mrs. Northbury her
model, Jo rashly took a plunge into the frothy sea of sensational
literature, but thanks to the life preserver thrown her by a friend,
she came up again not much the worse for her ducking.

Like most young scribblers, she went abroad for her characters and
scenery, and banditti, counts, gypsies, nuns, and duchesses appeared
upon her stage, and played their parts with as much accuracy and spirit
as could be expected.  Her readers were not particular about such
trifles as grammar, punctuation, and probability, and Mr. Dashwood
graciously permitted her to fill his columns at the lowest prices, not
thinking it necessary to tell her that the real cause of his
hospitality was the fact that one of his hacks, on being offered higher
wages, had basely left him in the lurch.

She soon became interested in her work, for her emaciated purse grew
stout, and the little hoard she was making to take Beth to the
mountains next summer grew slowly but surely as the weeks passed.  One
thing disturbed her satisfaction, and that was that she did not tell
them at home.  She had a feeling that Father and Mother would not
approve, and preferred to have her own way first, and beg pardon
afterward.  It was easy to keep her secret, for no name appeared with
her stories.  Mr. Dashwood had of course found it out very soon, but
promised to be dumb, and for a wonder kept his word.

She thought it would do her no harm, for she sincerely meant to write
nothing of which she would be ashamed, and quieted all pricks of
conscience by anticipations of the happy minute when she should show
her earnings and laugh over her well-kept secret.

But Mr. Dashwood rejected any but thrilling tales, and as thrills could
not be produced except by harrowing up the souls of the readers,
history and romance, land and sea, science and art, police records and
lunatic asylums, had to be ransacked for the purpose.  Jo soon found
that her innocent experience had given her but few glimpses of the
tragic world which underlies society, so regarding it in a business
light, she set about supplying her deficiencies with characteristic
energy. Eager to find material for stories, and bent on making them
original in plot, if not masterly in execution, she searched newspapers
for accidents, incidents, and crimes.  She excited the suspicions of
public librarians by asking for works on poisons.  She studied faces in
the street, and characters, good, bad, and indifferent, all about her.
She delved in the dust of ancient times for facts or fictions so old
that they were as good as new, and introduced herself to folly, sin,
and misery, as well as her limited opportunities allowed.  She thought
she was prospering finely, but unconsciously she was beginning to
desecrate some of the womanliest attributes of a woman's character.
She was living in bad society, and imaginary though it was, its
influence affected her, for she was feeding heart and fancy on
dangerous and unsubstantial food, and was fast brushing the innocent
bloom from her nature by a premature acquaintance with the darker side
of life, which comes soon enough to all of us.

She was beginning to feel rather than see this, for much describing of
other people's passions and feelings set her to studying and
speculating about her own, a morbid amusement in which healthy young
minds do not voluntarily indulge. Wrongdoing always brings its own
punishment, and when Jo most needed hers, she got it.

I don't know whether the study of Shakespeare helped her to read
character, or the natural instinct of a woman for what was honest,
brave, and strong, but while endowing her imaginary heroes with every
perfection under the sun, Jo was discovering a live hero, who
interested her in spite of many human imperfections.  Mr. Bhaer, in one
of their conversations, had advised her to study simple, true, and
lovely characters, wherever she found them, as good training for a
writer.  Jo took him at his word, for she coolly turned round and
studied him--a proceeding which would have much surprised him, had he
known it, for the worthy Professor was very humble in his own conceit.

Why everybody liked him was what puzzled Jo, at first.  He was neither
rich nor great, young nor handsome, in no respect what is called
fascinating, imposing, or brilliant, and yet he was as attractive as a
genial fire, and people seemed to gather about him as naturally as
about a warm hearth.  He was poor, yet always appeared to be giving
something away; a stranger, yet everyone was his friend; no longer
young, but as happy-hearted as a boy; plain and peculiar, yet his face
looked beautiful to many, and his oddities were freely forgiven for his
sake.  Jo often watched him, trying to discover the charm, and at last
decided that it was benevolence which worked the miracle.  If he had
any sorrow, 'it sat with its head under its wing', and he turned only
his sunny side to the world.  There were lines upon his forehead, but
Time seemed to have touched him gently, remembering how kind he was to
others.  The pleasant curves about his mouth were the memorials of many
friendly words and cheery laughs, his eyes were never cold or hard, and
his big hand had a warm, strong grasp that was more expressive than
words.

His very clothes seemed to partake of the hospitable nature of the
wearer.  They looked as if they were at ease, and liked to make him
comfortable.  His capacious waistcoat was suggestive of a large heart
underneath.  His rusty coat had a social air, and the baggy pockets
plainly proved that little hands often went in empty and came out full.
His very boots were benevolent, and his collars never stiff and raspy
like other people's.

"That's it!" said Jo to herself, when she at length discovered that
genuine good will toward one's fellow men could beautify and dignify
even a stout German teacher, who shoveled in his dinner, darned his own
socks, and was burdened with the name of Bhaer.

Jo valued goodness highly, but she also possessed a most feminine
respect for intellect, and a little discovery which she made about the
Professor added much to her regard for him. He never spoke of himself,
and no one ever knew that in his native city he had been a man much
honored and esteemed for learning and integrity, till a countryman came
to see him. He never spoke of himself, and in a conversation with Miss
Norton divulged the pleasing fact.  From her Jo learned it, and liked
it all the better because Mr. Bhaer had never told it.  She felt proud
to know that he was an honored Professor in Berlin, though only a poor
language-master in America, and his homely, hard-working life was much
beautified by the spice of romance which this discovery gave it.
Another and a better gift than intellect was shown her in a most
unexpected manner.  Miss Norton had the entree into most society, which
Jo would have had no chance of seeing but for her.  The solitary woman
felt an interest in the ambitious girl, and kindly conferred many
favors of this sort both on Jo and the Professor.  She took them with
her one night to a select symposium, held in honor of several
celebrities.

Jo went prepared to bow down and adore the mighty ones whom she had
worshiped with youthful enthusiasm afar off.  But her reverence for
genius received a severe shock that night, and it took her some time to
recover from the discovery that the great creatures were only men and
women after all.  Imagine her dismay, on stealing a glance of timid
admiration at the poet whose lines suggested an ethereal being fed on
'spirit, fire, and dew', to behold him devouring his supper with an
ardor which flushed his intellectual countenance.  Turning as from a
fallen idol, she made other discoveries which rapidly dispelled her
romantic illusions.  The great novelist vibrated between two decanters
with the regularity of a pendulum; the famous divine flirted openly
with one of the Madame de Staels of the age, who looked daggers at
another Corinne, who was amiably satirizing her, after outmaneuvering
her in efforts to absorb the profound philosopher, who imbibed tea
Johnsonianly and appeared to slumber, the loquacity of the lady
rendering speech impossible.  The scientific celebrities, forgetting
their mollusks and glacial periods, gossiped about art, while devoting
themselves to oysters and ices with characteristic energy; the young
musician, who was charming the city like a second Orpheus, talked
horses; and the specimen of the British nobility present happened to be
the most ordinary man of the party.

Before the evening was half over, Jo felt so completely disillusioned,
that she sat down in a corner to recover herself. Mr. Bhaer soon joined
her, looking rather out of his element, and presently several of the
philosophers, each mounted on his hobby, came ambling up to hold an
intellectual tournament in the recess.  The conversations were miles
beyond Jo's comprehension, but she enjoyed it, though Kant and Hegel
were unknown gods, the Subjective and Objective unintelligible terms,
and the only thing 'evolved from her inner consciousness' was a bad
headache after it was all over.  It dawned upon her gradually that the
world was being picked to pieces, and put together on new and,
according to the talkers, on infinitely better principles than before,
that religion was in a fair way to be reasoned into nothingness, and
intellect was to be the only God.  Jo knew nothing about philosophy or
metaphysics of any sort, but a curious excitement, half pleasurable,
half painful, came over her as she listened with a sense of being
turned adrift into time and space, like a young balloon out on a
holiday.

She looked round to see how the Professor liked it, and found him
looking at her with the grimmest expression she had ever seen him wear.
He shook his head and beckoned her to come away, but she was fascinated
just then by the freedom of Speculative Philosophy, and kept her seat,
trying to find out what the wise gentlemen intended to rely upon after
they had annihilated all the old beliefs.

Now, Mr. Bhaer was a diffident man and slow to offer his own opinions,
not because they were unsettled, but too sincere and earnest to be
lightly spoken.  As he glanced from Jo to several other young people,
attracted by the brilliancy of the philosophic pyrotechnics, he knit
his brows and longed to speak, fearing that some inflammable young soul
would be led astray by the rockets, to find when the display was over
that they had only an empty stick or a scorched hand.

He bore it as long as he could, but when he was appealed to for an
opinion, he blazed up with honest indignation and defended religion
with all the eloquence of truth--an eloquence which made his broken
English musical and his plain face beautiful.  He had a hard fight, for
the wise men argued well, but he didn't know when he was beaten and
stood to his colors like a man.  Somehow, as he talked, the world got
right again to Jo.  The old beliefs, that had lasted so long, seemed
better than the new.  God was not a blind force, and immortality was
not a pretty fable, but a blessed fact.  She felt as if she had solid
ground under her feet again, and when Mr. Bhaer paused, outtalked but
not one whit convinced, Jo wanted to clap her hands and thank him.

She did neither, but she remembered the scene, and gave the Professor
her heartiest respect, for she knew it cost him an effort to speak out
then and there, because his conscience would not let him be silent.
She began to see that character is a better possession than money,
rank, intellect, or beauty, and to feel that if greatness is what a
wise man has defined it to be, 'truth, reverence, and good will', then
her friend Friedrich Bhaer was not only good, but great.

This belief strengthened daily.  She valued his esteem, she coveted his
respect, she wanted to be worthy of his friendship, and just when the
wish was sincerest, she came near to losing everything.  It all grew
out of a cocked hat, for one evening the Professor came in to give Jo
her lesson with a paper soldier cap on his head, which Tina had put
there and he had forgotten to take off.

"It's evident he doesn't look in his glass before coming down," thought
Jo, with a smile, as he said "Goot efening," and sat soberly down,
quite unconscious of the ludicrous contrast between his subject and his
headgear, for he was going to read her the Death of Wallenstein.

She said nothing at first, for she liked to hear him laugh out his big,
hearty laugh when anything funny happened, so she left him to discover
it for himself, and presently forgot all about it, for to hear a German
read Schiller is rather an absorbing occupation.  After the reading
came the lesson, which was a lively one, for Jo was in a gay mood that
night, and the cocked hat kept her eyes dancing with merriment.  The
Professor didn't know what to make of her, and stopped at last to ask
with an air of mild surprise that was irresistible. . .

"Mees Marsch, for what do you laugh in your master's face? Haf you no
respect for me, that you go on so bad?"

"How can I be respectful, Sir, when you forget to take your hat off?"
said Jo.

Lifting his hand to his head, the absent-minded Professor gravely felt
and removed the little cocked hat, looked at it a minute, and then
threw back his head and laughed like a merry bass viol.

"Ah!  I see him now, it is that imp Tina who makes me a fool with my
cap.  Well, it is nothing, but see you, if this lesson goes not well,
you too shall wear him."

But the lesson did not go at all for a few minutes because Mr. Bhaer
caught sight of a picture on the hat, and unfolding it, said with great
disgust, "I wish these papers did not come in the house.  They are not
for children to see,  nor young people to read. It is not well, and I
haf no patience with those who make this harm."

Jo glanced at the sheet and saw a pleasing illustration composed of a
lunatic, a corpse, a villain, and a viper.  She did not like it, but
the impulse that made her turn it over was not one of displeasure but
fear, because for a minute she fancied the paper was the Volcano.  It
was not, however, and her panic subsided as she remembered that even if
it had been and one of her own tales in it, there would have been no
name to betray her.  She had betrayed herself, however, by a look and a
blush, for though an absent man, the Professor saw a good deal more
than people fancied.  He knew that Jo wrote, and had met her down among
the newspaper offices more than once, but as she never spoke of it, he
asked no questions in spite of a strong desire to see her work.  Now it
occurred to him that she was doing what she was ashamed to own, and it
troubled him.  He did not say to himself, "It is none of my business.
I've no right to say anything," as many people would have done.  He
only remembered that she was young and poor, a girl far away from
mother's love and father's care, and he was moved to help her with an
impulse as quick and natural as that which would prompt him to put out
his hand to save a baby from a puddle.  All this flashed through his
mind in a minute, but not a trace of it appeared in his face, and by
the time the paper was turned, and Jo's needle threaded, he was ready
to say quite naturally, but very gravely...

"Yes, you are right to put it from you.  I do not think that good young
girls should see such things.  They are made pleasant to some, but I
would more rather give my boys gunpowder to play with than this bad
trash."

"All may not be bad, only silly, you know, and if there is a demand for
it, I don't see any harm in supplying it. Many very respectable people
make an honest living out of what are called sensation stories," said
Jo, scratching gathers so energetically that a row of little slits
followed her pin.

"There is a demand for whisky, but I think you and I do not care to
sell it.  If the respectable people knew what harm they did, they would
not feel that the living was honest.  They haf no right to put poison
in the sugarplum, and let the small ones eat it.  No, they should think
a little, and sweep mud in the street before they do this thing."

Mr. Bhaer spoke warmly, and walked to the fire, crumpling the paper in
his hands.  Jo sat still, looking as if the fire had come to her, for
her cheeks burned long after the cocked hat had turned to smoke and
gone harmlessly up the chimney.

"I should like much to send all the rest after him," muttered the
Professor, coming back with a relieved air.

Jo thought what a blaze her pile of papers upstairs would make, and her
hard-earned money lay rather heavily on her conscience at that minute.
Then she thought consolingly to herself, "Mine are not like that, they
are only silly, never bad, so I won't be worried," and taking up her
book, she said, with a studious face, "Shall we go on, Sir? I'll be
very good and proper now."

"I shall hope so," was all he said, but he meant more than she
imagined, and the grave, kind look he gave her made her feel as if the
words Weekly Volcano were printed in large type on her forehead.

As soon as she went to her room, she got out her papers, and carefully
reread every one of her stories.  Being a little shortsighted, Mr.
Bhaer sometimes used eye glasses, and Jo had tried them once, smiling
to see how they magnified the fine print of her book.  Now she seemed
to have on the Professor's mental or moral spectacles also, for the
faults of these poor stories glared at her dreadfully and filled her
with dismay.

"They are trash, and will soon be worse trash if I go on, for each is
more sensational than the last.  I've gone blindly on, hurting myself
and other people, for the sake of money.  I know it's so, for I can't
read this stuff in sober earnest without being horribly ashamed of it,
and what should I do if they were seen at home or Mr. Bhaer got hold of
them?"

Jo turned hot at the bare idea, and stuffed the whole bundle into her
stove, nearly setting the chimney afire with the blaze.

"Yes, that's the best place for such inflammable nonsense. I'd better
burn the house down, I suppose, than let other people blow themselves
up with my gunpowder," she thought as she watched the Demon of the Jura
whisk away, a little black cinder with fiery eyes.

But when nothing remained of all her three month's work except a heap
of ashes and the money in her lap, Jo looked sober, as she sat on the
floor, wondering what she ought to do about her wages.

"I think I haven't done much harm yet, and may keep this to pay for my
time," she said, after a long meditation, adding impatiently, "I almost
wish I hadn't any conscience, it's so inconvenient.  If I didn't care
about doing right, and didn't feel uncomfortable when doing wrong, I
should get on capitally. I can't help wishing sometimes, that Mother
and Father hadn't been so particular about such things."

Ah, Jo, instead of wishing that, thank God that 'Father and Mother were
particular', and pity from your heart those who have no such guardians
to hedge them round with principles which may seem like prison walls to
impatient youth, but which will prove sure foundations to build
character upon in womanhood.

Jo wrote no more sensational stories, deciding that the money did not
pay for her share of the sensation, but going to the other extreme, as
is the way with people of her stamp, she took a course of Mrs.
Sherwood, Miss Edgeworth, and Hannah More, and then produced a tale
which might have been more properly called an essay or a sermon, so
intensely moral was it.  She had her doubts about it from the
beginning, for her lively fancy and girlish romance felt as ill at ease
in the new style as she would have done masquerading in the stiff and
cumbrous costume of the last century.  She sent this didactic gem to
several markets, but it found no purchaser, and she was inclined to
agree with Mr. Dashwood that morals didn't sell.

Then she tried a child's story, which she could easily have disposed of
if she had not been mercenary enough to demand filthy lucre for it.
The only person who offered enough to make it worth her while to try
juvenile literature was a worthy gentleman who felt it his mission to
convert all the world to his particular belief.  But much as she liked
to write for children, Jo could not consent to depict all her naughty
boys as being eaten by bears or tossed by mad bulls because they did
not go to a particular Sabbath school, nor all the good infants who did
go as rewarded by every kind of bliss, from gilded gingerbread to
escorts of angels when they departed this life with psalms or sermons
on their lisping tongues.  So nothing came of these trials, and Jo
corked up her inkstand, and said in a fit of very wholesome humility...

"I don't know anything.  I'll wait until I do before I try again, and
meantime, 'sweep mud in the street' if I can't do better, that's
honest, at least."  Which decision proved that her second tumble down
the beanstalk had done her some good.

While these internal revolutions were going on, her external life had
been as busy and uneventful as usual, and if she sometimes looked
serious or a little sad no one observed it but Professor Bhaer.  He did
it so quietly that Jo never knew he was watching to see if she would
accept and profit by his reproof, but she stood the test, and he was
satisfied, for though no words passed between them, he knew that she
had given up writing.  Not only did he guess it by the fact that the
second finger of her right hand was no longer inky, but she spent her
evenings downstairs now, was met no more among newspaper offices, and
studied with a dogged patience, which assured him that she was bent on
occupying her mind with something useful, if not pleasant.

He helped her in many ways, proving himself a true friend, and Jo was
happy, for while her pen lay idle, she was learning other lessons
besides German, and laying a foundation for the sensation story of her
own life.

It was a pleasant winter and a long one, for she did not leave Mrs.
Kirke till June.  Everyone seemed sorry when the time came.  The
children were inconsolable, and Mr. Bhaer's hair stuck straight up all
over his head, for he always rumpled it wildly when disturbed in mind.

"Going home?  Ah, you are happy that you haf a home to go in," he said,
when she told him, and sat silently pulling his beard in the corner,
while she held a little levee on that last evening.

She was going early, so she bade them all goodbye overnight, and when
his turn came, she said warmly, "Now, Sir, you won't forget to come and
see us, if you ever travel our way, will you? I'll never forgive you if
you do, for I want them all to know my friend."

"Do you?  Shall I come?" he asked, looking down at her with an eager
expression which she did not see.

"Yes, come next month.  Laurie graduates then, and you'd enjoy
commencement as something new."

"That is your best friend, of whom you speak?" he said in an altered
tone.

"Yes, my boy Teddy.  I'm very proud of him and should like you to see
him."

Jo looked up then, quite unconscious of anything but her own pleasure
in the prospect of showing them to one another. Something in Mr.
Bhaer's face suddenly recalled the fact that she might find Laurie more
than a 'best friend', and simply because she particularly wished not to
look as if anything was the matter, she involuntarily began to blush,
and the more she tried not to, the redder she grew.  If it had not been
for Tina on her knee.  She didn't know what would have become of her.
Fortunately the child was moved to hug her, so she managed to hide her
face an instant, hoping the Professor did not see it. But he did, and
his own changed again from that momentary anxiety to its usual
expression, as he said cordially...

"I fear I shall not make the time for that, but I wish the friend much
success, and you all happiness.  Gott bless you!"  And with that, he
shook hands warmly, shouldered Tina, and went away.

But after the boys were abed, he sat long before his fire with the
tired look on his face and the 'heimweh', or homesickness, lying heavy
at his heart.  Once, when he remembered Jo as she sat with the little
child in her lap and that new softness in her face, he leaned his head
on his hands a minute, and then roamed about the room, as if in search
of something that he could not find.

"It is not for me, I must not hope it now," he said to himself, with a
sigh that was almost a groan.  Then, as if reproaching himself for the
longing that he could not repress, he went and kissed the two tousled
heads upon the pillow, took down his seldom-used meerschaum, and opened
his Plato.

He did his best and did it manfully, but I don't think he found that a
pair of rampant boys, a pipe, or even the divine Plato, were very
satisfactory substitutes for wife and child at home.

Early as it was, he was at the station next morning to see Jo off, and
thanks to him, she began her solitary journey with the pleasant memory
of a familiar face smiling its farewell, a bunch of violets to keep her
company, and best of all, the happy thought, "Well, the winter's gone,
and I've written no books, earned no fortune, but I've made a friend
worth having and I'll try to keep him all my life."

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

completion: Friend In New York, Jo begins to write sensationalist stories for a publication called the "Weekly Volcano. She is not proud of these stories, as they are not moral or profound in any way. They do, however, provide her with a lot of money. Later, she witnesses Mr. Bhaer defending religion in a philosophical conversation and is more impressed with him than ever. When he finds out that she writes sensationalist fiction, she is even more ashamed, and quits writing the tales. In June, she must return home. She tells Bhaer that she will see Laurie graduate, and Bhaer looks a bit jealous. He tells himself that he cannot hope to have Jo. She goes home feeling unsuccessful in writing, but very successful in having found such a good friend


prompt:
Chapter: Whatever his motive might have been, Laurie studied to some purpose
that year, for he graduated with honor, and gave the Latin oration with
the grace of a Phillips and the eloquence of a Demosthenes, so his
friends said.  They were all there, his grandfather--oh, so proud--Mr.
and Mrs. March, John and Meg, Jo and Beth, and all exulted over him
with the sincere admiration which boys make light of at the time, but
fail to win from the world by any after-triumphs.

"I've got to stay for this confounded supper, but I shall be home early
tomorrow.  You'll come and meet me as usual, girls?" Laurie said, as he
put the sisters into the carriage after the joys of the day were over.
He said 'girls', but he meant Jo, for she was the only one who kept up
the old custom. She had not the heart to refuse her splendid,
successful boy anything, and answered warmly...

"I'll come, Teddy, rain or shine, and march before you, playing 'Hail
the conquering hero comes' on a jew's-harp."

Laurie thanked her with a look that made her think in a sudden panic,
"Oh, deary me!  I know he'll say something, and then what shall I do?"

Evening meditation and morning work somewhat allayed her fears, and
having decided that she wouldn't be vain enough to think people were
going to propose when she had given them every reason to know what her
answer would be, she set forth at the appointed time, hoping Teddy
wouldn't do anything to make her hurt his poor feelings.  A call at
Meg's, and a refreshing sniff and sip at the Daisy and Demijohn, still
further fortified her for the tete-a-tete, but when she saw a stalwart
figure looming in the distance, she had a strong desire to turn about
and run away.

"Where's the jew's-harp, Jo?" cried Laurie, as soon as he was within
speaking distance.

"I forgot it." And Jo took heart again, for that salutation could not
be called lover-like.

She always used to take his arm on these occasions, now she did not,
and he made no complaint, which was a bad sign, but talked on rapidly
about all sorts of faraway subjects, till they turned from the road
into the little path that led homeward through the grove.  Then he
walked more slowly, suddenly lost his fine flow of language, and now
and then a dreadful pause occurred.  To rescue the conversation from
one of the wells of silence into which it kept falling, Jo said
hastily, "Now you must have a good long holiday!"

"I intend to."

Something in his resolute tone made Jo look up quickly to find him
looking down at her with an expression that assured her the dreaded
moment had come, and made her put out her hand with an imploring, "No,
Teddy.  Please don't!"

"I will, and you must hear me.  It's no use, Jo, we've got to have it
out, and the sooner the better for both of us," he answered, getting
flushed and excited all at once.

"Say what you like then.  I'll listen," said Jo, with a desperate sort
of patience.

Laurie was a young lover, but he was in earnest, and meant to 'have it
out', if he died in the attempt, so he plunged into the subject with
characteristic impetuousity, saying in a voice that would get choky now
and then, in spite of manful efforts to keep it steady...

"I've loved you ever since I've known you, Jo, couldn't help it, you've
been so good to me.  I've tried to show it, but you wouldn't let me.
Now I'm going to make you hear, and give me an answer, for I can't go
on so any longer."

"I wanted to save you this.  I thought you'd understand..." began Jo,
finding it a great deal harder than she expected.

"I know you did, but the girls are so queer you never know what they
mean.  They say no when they mean yes, and drive a man out of his wits
just for the fun of it," returned Laurie, entrenching himself behind an
undeniable fact.

"I don't.  I never wanted to make you care for me so, and I went away
to keep you from it if I could."

"I thought so.  It was like you, but it was no use.  I only loved you
all the more, and I worked hard to please you, and I gave up billiards
and everything you didn't like, and waited and never complained, for I
hoped you'd love me, though I'm not half good enough..." Here there was
a choke that couldn't be controlled, so he decapitated buttercups while
he cleared his 'confounded throat'.

"You, you are, you're a great deal too good for me, and I'm so grateful
to you, and so proud and fond of you, I don't know why I can't love you
as you want me to.  I've tried, but I can't change the feeling, and it
would be a lie to say I do when I don't."

"Really, truly, Jo?"

He stopped short, and caught both her hands as he put his question with
a look that she did not soon forget.

"Really, truly, dear."

They were in the grove now, close by the stile, and when the last words
fell reluctantly from Jo's lips, Laurie dropped her hands and turned as
if to go on, but for once in his life the fence was too much for him.
So he just laid his head down on the mossy post, and stood so still
that Jo was frightened.

"Oh, Teddy, I'm sorry, so desperately sorry, I could kill myself if it
would do any good!  I wish you wouldn't take it so hard, I can't help
it.  You know it's impossible for people to make themselves love other
people if they don't," cried Jo inelegantly but remorsefully, as she
softly patted his shoulder, remembering the time when he had comforted
her so long ago.

"They do sometimes," said a muffled voice from the post. "I don't
believe it's the right sort of love, and I'd rather not try it," was
the decided answer.

There was a long pause, while a blackbird sung blithely on the willow
by the river, and the tall grass rustled in the wind. Presently Jo said
very soberly, as she sat down on the step of the stile, "Laurie, I want
to tell you something."

He started as if he had been shot, threw up his head, and cried out in
a fierce tone, "Don't tell me that, Jo, I can't bear it now!"

"Tell what?" she asked, wondering at his violence.

"That you love that old man."

"What old man?" demanded Jo, thinking he must mean his grandfather.

"That devilish Professor you were always writing about. If you say you
love him, I know I shall do something desperate;" and he looked as if
he would keep his word, as he clenched his hands with a wrathful spark
in his eyes.

Jo wanted to laugh, but restrained herself and said warmly, for she
too, was getting excited with all this, "Don't swear, Teddy!  He isn't
old, nor anything bad, but good and kind, and the best friend I've got,
next to you.  Pray, don't fly into a passion.  I want to be kind, but I
know I shall get angry if you abuse my Professor.  I haven't the least
idea of loving him or anybody else."

"But you will after a while, and then what will become of me?"

"You'll love someone else too, like a sensible boy, and forget all this
trouble."

"I can't love anyone else, and I'll never forget you, Jo, Never!
Never!" with a stamp to emphasize his passionate words.

"What shall I do with him?" sighed Jo, finding that emotions were more
unmanagable than she expected.  "You haven't heard what I wanted to
tell you.  Sit down and listen, for indeed I want to do right and make
you happy," she said, hoping to soothe him with a little reason, which
proved that she knew nothing about love.

Seeing a ray of hope in that last speech, Laurie threw himself down on
the grass at her feet, leaned his arm on the lower step of the stile,
and looked up at her with an expectant face. Now that arrangement was
not conducive to calm speech or clear thought on Jo's part, for how
could she say hard things to her boy while he watched her with eyes
full of love and longing, and lashes still wet with the bitter drop or
two her hardness of heart had wrung from him?  She gently turned his
head away, saying, as she stroked the wavy hair which had been allowed
to grow for her sake--how touching that was, to be sure! "I agree with
Mother that you and I are not suited to each other, because our quick
tempers and strong wills would probably make us very miserable, if we
were so foolish as to..." Jo paused a little over the last word, but
Laurie uttered it with a rapturous expression.

"Marry--no we shouldn't!  If you loved me, Jo, I should be a perfect
saint, for you could make me anything you like."

"No, I can't.  I've tried and failed, and I won't risk our happiness by
such a serious experiment.  We don't agree and we never shall, so we'll
be good friends all our lives, but we won't go and do anything rash."

"Yes, we will if we get the chance," muttered Laurie rebelliously.

"Now do be reasonable, and take a sensible view of the case," implored
Jo, almost at her wit's end.

"I won't be reasonable.  I don't want to take what you call 'a sensible
view'.  It won't help me, and it only makes it harder.  I don't believe
you've got any heart."

"I wish I hadn't."

There was a little quiver in Jo's voice, and thinking it a good omen,
Laurie turned round, bringing all his persuasive powers to bear as he
said, in the wheedlesome tone that had never been so dangerously
wheedlesome before, "Don't disappoint us, dear!  Everyone expects it.
Grandpa has set his heart upon it, your people like it, and I can't get
on without you.  Say you will, and let's be happy.  Do, do!"

Not until months afterward did Jo understand how she had the strength
of mind to hold fast to the resolution she had made when she decided
that she did not love her boy, and never could.  It was very hard to
do, but she did it, knowing that delay was both useless and cruel.

"I can't say 'yes' truly, so I won't say it at all.  You'll see that
I'm right, by-and-by, and thank me for it..." she began solemnly.

"I'll be hanged if I do!" and Laurie bounced up off the grass, burning
with indignation at the very idea.

"Yes, you will!" persisted Jo.  "You'll get over this after a while,
and find some lovely accomplished girl, who will adore you, and make a
fine mistress for your fine house.  I shouldn't. I'm homely and awkward
and odd and old, and you'd be ashamed of me, and we should quarrel--we
can't help it even now, you see--and I shouldn't like elegant society
and you would, and you'd hate my scribbling, and I couldn't get on
without it, and we should be unhappy, and wish we hadn't done it, and
everything would be horrid!"

"Anything more?" asked Laurie, finding it hard to listen patiently to
this prophetic burst.

"Nothing more, except that I don't believe I shall ever marry.  I'm
happy as I am, and love my liberty too well to be in a hurry to give it
up for any mortal man."

"I know better!" broke in Laurie.  "You think so now, but there'll come
a time when you will care for somebody, and you'll love him
tremendously, and live and die for him.  I know you will, it's your
way, and I shall have to stand by and see it," and the despairing lover
cast his hat upon the ground with a gesture that would have seemed
comical, if his face had not been so tragic.

"Yes, I will live and die for him, if he ever comes and makes me love
him in spite of myself, and you must do the best you can!" cried Jo,
losing patience with poor Teddy.  "I've done my best, but you won't be
reasonable, and it's selfish of you to keep teasing for what I can't
give.  I shall always be fond of you, very fond indeed, as a friend,
but I'll never marry you, and the sooner you believe it the better for
both of us--so now!"

That speech was like gunpowder.  Laurie looked at her a minute as if he
did not quite know what to do with himself, then turned sharply away,
saying in a desperate sort of tone, "You'll be sorry some day, Jo."

"Oh, where are you going?" she cried, for his face frightened her.

"To the devil!" was the consoling answer.

For a minute Jo's heart stood still, as he swung himself down the bank
toward the river, but it takes much folly, sin or misery to send a
young man to a violent death, and Laurie was not one of the weak sort
who are conquered by a single failure.  He had no thought of a
melodramatic plunge, but some blind instinct led him to fling hat and
coat into his boat, and row away with all his might, making better time
up the river than he had done in any race.  Jo drew a long breath and
unclasped her hands as she watched the poor fellow trying to outstrip
the trouble which he carried in his heart.

"That will do him good, and he'll come home in such a tender, penitent
state of mind, that I shan't dare to see him," she said, adding, as she
went slowly home, feeling as if she had murdered some innocent thing,
and buried it under the leaves.  "Now I must go and prepare Mr.
Laurence to be very kind to my poor boy.  I wish he'd love Beth,
perhaps he may in time, but I begin to think I was mistaken about her.
Oh dear!  How can girls like to have lovers and refuse them?  I think
it's dreadful."

Being sure that no one could do it so well as herself, she went
straight to Mr. Laurence, told the hard story bravely through, and then
broke down, crying so dismally over her own insensibility that the kind
old gentleman, though sorely disappointed, did not utter a reproach.
He found it difficult to understand how any girl could help loving
Laurie, and hoped she would change her mind, but he knew even better
than Jo that love cannot be forced, so he shook his head sadly and
resolved to carry his boy out of harm's way, for Young Impetuosity's
parting words to Jo disturbed him more than he would confess.

When Laurie came home, dead tired but quite composed, his grandfather
met him as if he knew nothing, and kept up the delusion very
successfully for an hour or two.  But when they sat together in the
twilight, the time they used to enjoy so much, it was hard work for the
old man to ramble on as usual, and harder still for the young one to
listen to praises of the last year's success, which to him now seemed
like love's labor lost.  He bore it as long as he could, then went to
his piano and began to play.  The windows were open, and Jo, walking
in the garden with Beth, for once understood music better than her
sister, for he played the '_Sonata Pathetique_', and played it as he
never did before.

"That's very fine, I dare say, but it's sad enough to make one cry.
Give us something gayer, lad," said Mr. Laurence, whose kind old heart
was full of sympathy, which he longed to show but knew not how.

Laurie dashed into a livelier strain, played stormily for several
minutes, and would have got through bravely, if in a momentary lull
Mrs. March's voice had not been heard calling, "Jo, dear, come in.  I
want you."

Just what Laurie longed to say, with a different meaning! As he
listened, he lost his place, the music ended with a broken chord, and
the musician sat silent in the dark.

"I can't stand this," muttered the old gentleman.  Up he got, groped
his way to the piano, laid a kind hand on either of the broad
shoulders, and said, as gently as a woman, "I know, my boy, I know."

No answer for an instant, then Laurie asked sharply, "Who told you?"

"Jo herself."

"Then there's an end of it!"  And he shook off his grandfather's hands
with an impatient motion, for though grateful for the sympathy, his
man's pride could not bear a man's pity.

"Not quite.  I want to say one thing, and then there shall be an end of
it," returned Mr. Laurence with unusual mildness. "You won't care to
stay at home now, perhaps?"

"I don't intend to run away from a girl.  Jo can't prevent my seeing
her, and I shall stay and do it as long as I like," interrupted Laurie
in a defiant tone.

"Not if you are the gentleman I think you.  I'm disappointed, but the
girl can't help it, and the only thing left for you to do is to go away
for a time.  Where will you go?"

"Anywhere.  I don't care what becomes of me," and Laurie got up with a
reckless laugh that grated on his grandfather's ear.

"Take it like a man, and don't do anything rash, for God's sake.  Why
not go abroad, as you planned, and forget it?"

"I can't."

"But you've been wild to go, and I promised you should when you got
through college."

"Ah, but I didn't mean to go alone!" and Laurie walked fast through the
room with an expression which it was well his grandfather did not see.

"I don't ask you to go alone.  There's someone ready and glad to go
with you, anywhere in the world."

"Who, Sir?" stopping to listen.

"Myself."

Laurie came back as quickly as he went, and put out his hand, saying
huskily, "I'm a selfish brute, but--you know--Grandfather--"

"Lord help me, yes, I do know, for I've been through it all before,
once in my own young days, and then with your father. Now, my dear boy,
just sit quietly down and hear my plan.  It's all settled, and can be
carried out at once," said Mr. Laurence, keeping hold of the young man,
as if fearful that he would break away as his father had done before
him.

"Well, sir, what is it?" and Laurie sat down, without a sign of
interest in face or voice.

"There is business in London that needs looking after.  I meant you
should attend to it, but I can do it better myself, and things here
will get on very well with Brooke to manage them.  My partners do
almost everything, I'm merely holding on until you take my place, and
can be off at any time."

"But you hate traveling, Sir.  I can't ask it of you at your age,"
began Laurie, who was grateful for the sacrifice, but much preferred to
go alone, if he went at all.

The old gentleman knew that perfectly well, and particularly desired to
prevent it, for the mood in which he found his grandson assured him
that it would not be wise to leave him to his own devices.  So,
stifling a natural regret at the thought of the home comforts he would
leave behind him, he said stoutly, "Bless your soul, I'm not
superannuated yet.  I quite enjoy the idea.  It will do me good, and my
old bones won't suffer, for traveling nowadays is almost as easy as
sitting in a chair."

A restless movement from Laurie suggested that his chair was not easy,
or that he did not like the plan, and made the old man add hastily, "I
don't mean to be a marplot or a burden. I go because I think you'd feel
happier than if I was left behind.  I don't intend to gad about with
you, but leave you free to go where you like, while I amuse myself in
my own way.  I've friends in London and Paris, and should like to visit
them.  Meantime you can go to Italy, Germany, Switzerland, where you
will, and enjoy pictures, music, scenery, and adventures to your
heart's content."

Now, Laurie felt just then that his heart was entirely broken and the
world a howling wilderness, but at the sound of certain words which the
old gentleman artfully introduced into his closing sentence, the broken
heart gave an unexpected leap, and a green oasis or two suddenly
appeared in the howling wilderness.  He sighed, and then said, in a
spiritless tone, "Just as you like, Sir.  It doesn't matter where I go
or what I do."

"It does to me, remember that, my lad.  I give you entire liberty, but
I trust you to make an honest use of it.  Promise me that, Laurie."

"Anything you like, Sir."

"Good," thought the old gentleman.  "You don't care now, but there'll
come a time when that promise will keep you out of mischief, or I'm
much mistaken."

Being an energetic individual, Mr. Laurence struck while the iron was
hot, and before the blighted being recovered spirit enough to rebel,
they were off.  During the time necessary for preparation, Laurie bore
himself as young gentleman usually do in such cases.  He was moody,
irritable, and pensive by turns, lost his appetite, neglected his dress
and devoted much time to playing tempestuously on his piano, avoided
Jo, but consoled himself by staring at her from his window, with a
tragic face that haunted her dreams by night and oppressed her with a
heavy sense of guilt by day.  Unlike some sufferers, he never spoke of
his unrequited passion, and would allow no one, not even Mrs. March, to
attempt consolation or offer sympathy.  On some accounts, this was a
relief to his friends, but the weeks before his departure were very
uncomfortable, and everyone rejoiced that the 'poor, dear fellow was
going away to forget his trouble, and come home happy'.  Of course, he
smiled darkly at their delusion, but passed it by with the sad
superiority of one who knew that his fidelity like his love was
unalterable.

When the parting came he affected high spirits, to conceal certain
inconvenient emotions which seemed inclined to assert themselves.  This
gaiety did not impose upon anybody, but they tried to look as if it did
for his sake, and he got on very well till Mrs. March kissed him, with
a whisper full of motherly solicitude.  Then feeling that he was going
very fast, he hastily embraced them all round, not forgetting the
afflicted Hannah, and ran downstairs as if for his life.  Jo followed a
minute after to wave her hand to him if he looked round.  He did look
round, came back, put his arms about her as she stood on the step above
him, and looked up at her with a face that made his short appeal
eloquent and pathetic.

"Oh, Jo, can't you?"

"Teddy, dear, I wish I could!"

That was all, except a little pause.  Then Laurie straightened himself
up, said, "It's all right, never mind," and went away without another
word.  Ah, but it wasn't all right, and Jo did mind, for while the
curly head lay on her arm a minute after her hard answer, she felt as
if she had stabbed her dearest friend, and when he left her without a
look behind him, she knew that the boy Laurie never would come again.

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

completion: Heartache All of the Marches except Amy go to see Laurie graduate from college. He has done well there, having spent the last year working hard, probably to impress Jo. When he returns home, he finally confesses his love to Jo. She tries to stop him from speaking his mind, but he insists on telling her how he feels. She rejects his marriage proposals, telling him she doesn't love him in that way, which breaks his heart. He worries that she loves Professor Bhaer, and speaks scornfully of Bhaer's old age. Jo energetically defends the professor, but says she does not love him. After the rejection, Laurie mopes for a while until Mr. Laurence, to whom Jo has told of her conversation with Laurie, suggests that he and Laurie go to Europe for a while. Laurie reluctantly agrees and sadly leaves


prompt:
Chapter: When Jo came home that spring, she had been struck with the change in
Beth.  No one spoke of it or seemed aware of it, for it had come too
gradually to startle those who saw her daily, but to eyes sharpened by
absence, it was very plain and a heavy weight fell on Jo's heart as she
saw her sister's face. It was no paler and but littler thinner than in
the autumn, yet there was a strange, transparent look about it, as if
the mortal was being slowly refined away, and the immortal shining
through the frail flesh with an indescribably pathetic beauty.  Jo saw
and felt it, but said nothing at the time, and soon the first
impression lost much of its power, for Beth seemed happy, no one
appeared to doubt that she was better, and presently in other cares Jo
for a time forgot her fear.

But when Laurie was gone, and peace prevailed again, the vague anxiety
returned and haunted her.  She had confessed her sins and been
forgiven, but when she showed her savings and proposed a mountain trip,
Beth had thanked her heartily, but begged not to go so far away from
home.  Another little visit to the seashore would suit her better, and
as Grandma could not be prevailed upon to leave the babies, Jo took
Beth down to the quiet place, where she could live much in the open
air, and let the fresh sea breezes blow a little color into her pale
cheeks.

It was not a fashionable place, but even among the pleasant people
there, the girls made few friends, preferring to live for one another.
Beth was too shy to enjoy society, and Jo too wrapped up in her to care
for anyone else.  So they were all in all to each other, and came and
went, quite unconscious of the interest they excited in those about
them, who watched with sympathetic eyes the strong sister and the
feeble one, always together, as if they felt instinctively that a long
separation was not far away.

They did feel it, yet neither spoke of it, for often between ourselves
and those nearest and dearest to us there exists a reserve which it is
very hard to overcome.  Jo felt as if a veil had fallen between her
heart and Beth's, but when she put out her hand to lift it up, there
seemed something sacred in the silence, and she waited for Beth to
speak.  She wondered, and was thankful also, that her parents did not
seem to see what she saw, and during the quiet weeks when the shadows
grew so plain to her, she said nothing of it to those at home,
believing that it would tell itself when Beth came back no better. She
wondered still more if her sister really guessed the hard truth, and
what thoughts were passing through her mind during the long hours when
she lay on the warm rocks with her head in Jo's lap, while the winds
blew healthfully over her and the sea made music at her feet.

One day Beth told her.  Jo thought she was asleep, she lay so still,
and putting down her book, sat looking at her with wistful eyes, trying
to see signs of hope in the faint color on Beth's cheeks.  But she
could not find enough to satisfy her, for the cheeks were very thin,
and the hands seemed too feeble to hold even the rosy little shells
they had been collecting. It came to her then more bitterly than ever
that Beth was slowly drifting away from her, and her arms instinctively
tightened their hold upon the dearest treasure she possessed. For a
minute her eyes were too dim for seeing, and when they cleared, Beth
was looking up at her so tenderly that there was hardly any need for
her to say, "Jo, dear, I'm glad you know it.  I've tried to tell you,
but I couldn't."

There was no answer except her sister's cheek against her own, not even
tears, for when most deeply moved, Jo did not cry.  She was the weaker
then, and Beth tried to comfort and sustain her, with her arms about
her and the soothing words she whispered in her ear.

"I've known it for a good while, dear, and now I'm used to it, it isn't
hard to think of or to bear.  Try to see it so and don't be troubled
about me, because it's best, indeed it is."

"Is this what made you so unhappy in the autumn, Beth? You did not feel
it then, and keep it to yourself so long, did you?" asked Jo, refusing
to see or say that it was best, but glad to know that Laurie had no
part in Beth's trouble.

"Yes, I gave up hoping then, but I didn't like to own it. I tried to
think it was a sick fancy, and would not let it trouble anyone.  But
when I saw you all so well and strong and full of happy plans, it was
hard to feel that I could never be like you, and then I was miserable,
Jo."

"Oh, Beth, and you didn't tell me, didn't let me comfort and help you?
How could you shut me out, bear it all alone?"

Jo's voice was full of tender reproach, and her heart ached to think of
the solitary struggle that must have gone on while Beth learned to say
goodbye to health, love, and life, and take up her cross so cheerfully.

"Perhaps it was wrong, but I tried to do right.  I wasn't sure, no one
said anything, and I hoped I was mistaken.  It would have been selfish
to frighten you all when Marmee was so anxious about Meg, and Amy away,
and you so happy with Laurie--at least I thought so then."

"And I thought you loved him, Beth, and I went away because I
couldn't," cried Jo, glad to say all the truth.

Beth looked so amazed at the idea that Jo smiled in spite of her pain,
and added softly, "Then you didn't, dearie? I was afraid it was so, and
imagined your poor little heart full of lovelornity all that while."

"Why, Jo, how could I, when he was so fond of you?" asked Beth, as
innocently as a child.  "I do love him dearly.  He is so good to me,
how can I help It?  But he could never be anything to me but my
brother.  I hope he truly will be, sometime."

"Not through me," said Jo decidedly.  "Amy is left for him, and they
would suit excellently, but I have no heart for such things, now.  I
don't care what becomes of anybody but you, Beth. You must get well."

"I want to, oh, so much!  I try, but every day I lose a little, and
feel more sure that I shall never gain it back.  It's like the tide,
Jo, when it turns, it goes slowly, but it can't be stopped."

"It shall be stopped, your tide must not turn so soon, nineteen is too
young, Beth.  I can't let you go.  I'll work and pray and fight against
it.  I'll keep you in spite of everything.  There must be ways, it
can't be too late.  God won't be so cruel as to take you from me,"
cried poor Jo rebelliously, for her spirit was far less piously
submissive than Beth's.

Simple, sincere people seldom speak much of their piety.  It shows
itself in acts rather than in words, and has more influence than
homilies or protestations.  Beth could not reason upon or explain the
faith that gave her courage and patience to give up life, and
cheerfully wait for death.  Like a confiding child, she asked no
questions, but left everything to God and nature, Father and Mother of
us all, feeling sure that they, and they only, could teach and
strengthen heart and spirit for this life and the life to come.  She
did not rebuke Jo with saintly speeches, only loved her better for her
passionate affection, and clung more closely to the dear human love,
from which our Father never means us to be weaned, but through which He
draws us closer to Himself.  She could not say, "I'm glad to go," for
life was very sweet for her.  She could only sob out, "I try to be
willing," while she held fast to Jo, as the first bitter wave of this
great sorrow broke over them together.

By and by Beth said, with recovered serenity, "You'll tell them this
when we go home?"

"I think they will see it without words," sighed Jo, for now it seemed
to her that Beth changed every day.

"Perhaps not.  I've heard that the people who love best are often
blindest to such things.  If they don't see it, you will tell them for
me.  I don't want any secrets, and it's kinder to prepare them.  Meg
has John and the babies to comfort her, but you must stand by Father
and Mother, won't you Jo?"

"If I can.  But, Beth, I don't give up yet.  I'm going to believe that
it is a sick fancy, and not let you think it's true." said Jo, trying
to speak cheerfully.

Beth lay a minute thinking, and then said in her quiet way, "I don't
know how to express myself, and shouldn't try to anyone but you,
because I can't speak out except to my Jo.  I only mean to say that I
have a feeling that it never was intended I should live long.  I'm not
like the rest of you.  I never made any plans about what I'd do when I
grew up.  I never thought of being married, as you all did.  I couldn't
seem to imagine myself anything but stupid little Beth, trotting about
at home, of no use anywhere but there.  I never wanted to go away, and
the hard part now is the leaving you all.  I'm not afraid, but it seems
as if I should be homesick for you even in heaven."

Jo could not speak, and for several minutes there was no sound but the
sigh of the wind and the lapping of the tide.  A white-winged gull flew
by, with the flash of sunshine on its silvery breast.  Beth watched it
till it vanished, and her eyes were full of sadness.  A little
gray-coated sand bird came tripping over the beach 'peeping' softly to
itself, as if enjoying the sun and sea.  It came quite close to Beth,
and looked at her with a friendly eye and sat upon a warm stone,
dressing its wet feathers, quite at home.  Beth smiled and felt
comforted, for the tiny thing seemed to offer its small friendship and
remind her that a pleasant world was still to be enjoyed.

"Dear little bird!  See, Jo, how tame it is.  I like peeps better than
the gulls.  They are not so wild and handsome, but they seem happy,
confiding little things.  I used to call them my birds last summer, and
Mother said they reminded her of me--busy, quaker-colored creatures,
always near the shore, and always chirping that contented little song
of theirs.  You are the gull, Jo, strong and wild, fond of the storm
and the wind, flying far out to sea, and happy all alone.  Meg is the
turtledove, and Amy is like the lark she writes about, trying to get up
among the clouds, but always dropping down into its nest again.  Dear
little girl!  She's so ambitious, but her heart is good and tender, and
no matter how high she flies, she never will forget home.  I hope I
shall see her again, but she seems so far away."

"She is coming in the spring, and I mean that you shall be all ready to
see and enjoy her.  I'm going to have you well and rosy by that time,"
began Jo, feeling that of all the changes in Beth, the talking change
was the greatest, for it seemed to cost no effort now, and she thought
aloud in a way quite unlike bashful Beth.

"Jo, dear, don't hope any more.  It won't do any good.  I'm sure of
that.  We won't be miserable, but enjoy being together while we wait.
We'll have happy times, for I don't suffer much, and I think the tide
will go out easily, if you help me."

Jo leaned down to kiss the tranquil face, and with that silent kiss,
she dedicated herself soul and body to Beth.

She was right.  There was no need of any words when they got home, for
Father and Mother saw plainly now what they had prayed to be saved from
seeing.  Tired with her short journey, Beth went at once to bed, saying
how glad she was to be home, and when Jo went down, she found that she
would be spared the hard task of telling Beth's secret.  Her father
stood leaning his head on the mantelpiece and did not turn as she came
in, but her mother stretched out her arms as if for help, and Jo went
to comfort her without a word.

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

completion: Beth's Secret Coming home from New York, Jo has been surprised to find Beth even paler and thinner than before. She proposes to take Beth to the mountains with the money that she has earned. Beth says that she does not want to go so far and asks to go to the seashore again instead. When they are on holiday, Beth confesses that she knows that she will die soon. Jo tells her that she will not, but Beth is certain that she will. Beth tells her that this realization was the reason she was melancholy the previous fall. She asks Jo to tell their parents so that she does not have to. But when they return home, Jo does not need to say anything. Their parents can see the change in Beth for themselves


prompt:
Chapter: At three o'clock in the afternoon, all the fashionable world at Nice
may be seen on the Promenade des Anglais--a charming place, for the
wide walk, bordered with palms, flowers, and tropical shrubs, is
bounded on one side by the sea, on the other by the grand drive, lined
with hotels and villas, while beyond lie orange orchards and the hills.
Many nations are represented, many languages spoken, many costumes
worn, and on a sunny day the spectacle is as gay and brilliant as a
carnival.  Haughty English, lively French, sober Germans, handsome
Spaniards, ugly Russians, meek Jews, free-and-easy Americans, all
drive, sit, or saunter here, chatting over the news, and criticizing
the latest celebrity who has arrived--Ristori or Dickens, Victor
Emmanuel or the Queen of the Sandwich Islands.  The equipages are as
varied as the company and attract as much attention, especially the low
basket barouches in which ladies drive themselves, with a pair of
dashing ponies, gay nets to keep their voluminous flounces from
overflowing the diminutive vehicles, and little grooms on the perch
behind.

Along this walk, on Christmas Day, a tall young man walked slowly, with
his hands behind him, and a somewhat absent expression of countenance.
He looked like an Italian, was dressed like an Englishman, and had the
independent air of an American--a combination which caused sundry pairs
of feminine eyes to look approvingly after him, and sundry dandies in
black velvet suits, with rose-colored neckties, buff gloves, and orange
flowers in their buttonholes, to shrug their shoulders, and then envy
him his inches. There were plenty of pretty faces to admire, but the
young man took little notice of them, except to glance now and then at
some blonde girl in blue.  Presently he strolled out of the promenade
and stood a moment at the crossing, as if undecided whether to go and
listen to the band in the Jardin Publique, or to wander along the beach
toward Castle Hill.  The quick trot of ponies' feet made him look up,
as one of the little carriages, containing a single young lady, came
rapidly down the street.  The lady was young, blonde, and dressed in
blue.  He stared a minute, then his whole face woke up, and, waving his
hat like a boy, he hurried forward to meet her.

"Oh, Laurie, is it really you?  I thought you'd never come!" cried Amy,
dropping the reins and holding out both hands, to the great
scandalization of a French mamma, who hastened her daughter's steps,
lest she should be demoralized by beholding the free manners of these
'mad English'.

"I was detained by the way, but I promised to spend Christmas with you,
and here I am."

"How is your grandfather?  When did you come?  Where are you staying?"

"Very well--last night--at the Chauvain.  I called at your hotel, but
you were out."

"I have so much to say, I don't know where to begin!  Get in and we can
talk at our ease.  I was going for a drive and longing for company.
Flo's saving up for tonight."

"What happens then, a ball?"

"A Christmas party at our hotel.  There are many Americans there, and
they give it in honor of the day.  You'll go with us, of course?  Aunt
will be charmed."

"Thank you.  Where now?" asked Laurie, leaning back and folding his
arms, a proceeding which suited Amy, who preferred to drive, for her
parasol whip and blue reins over the white ponies' backs afforded her
infinite satisfaction.

"I'm going to the bankers first for letters, and then to Castle Hill.
The view is so lovely, and I like to feed the peacocks. Have you ever
been there?"

"Often, years ago, but I don't mind having a look at it."

"Now tell me all about yourself.  The last I heard of you, your
grandfather wrote that he expected you from Berlin."

"Yes, I spent a month there and then joined him in Paris, where he has
settled for the winter.  He has friends there and finds plenty to amuse
him, so I go and come, and we get on capitally."

"That's a sociable arrangement," said Amy, missing something in
Laurie's manner, though she couldn't tell what.

"Why, you see, he hates to travel, and I hate to keep still, so we each
suit ourselves, and there is no trouble.  I am often with him, and he
enjoys my adventures, while I like to feel that someone is glad to see
me when I get back from my wanderings.  Dirty old hole, isn't it?" he
added, with a look of disgust as they drove along the boulevard to the
Place Napoleon in the old city.

"The dirt is picturesque, so I don't mind.  The river and the hills are
delicious, and these glimpses of the narrow cross streets are my
delight.  Now we shall have to wait for that procession to pass.  It's
going to the Church of St.  John."

While Laurie listlessly watched the procession of priests under their
canopies, white-veiled nuns bearing lighted tapers, and some
brotherhood in blue chanting as they walked, Amy watched him, and felt
a new sort of shyness steal over her, for he was changed, and she could
not find the merry-faced boy she left in the moody-looking man beside
her.  He was handsomer than ever and greatly improved, she thought, but
now that the flush of pleasure at meeting her was over, he looked tired
and spiritless--not sick, nor exactly unhappy, but older and graver
than a year or two of prosperous life should have made him.  She
couldn't understand it and did not venture to ask questions, so she
shook her head and touched up her ponies, as the procession wound away
across the arches of the Paglioni bridge and vanished in the church.

"Que pensez-vous?" she said, airing her French, which had improved in
quantity, if not in quality, since she came abroad.

"That mademoiselle has made good use of her time, and the result is
charming," replied Laurie, bowing with his hand on his heart and an
admiring look.

She blushed with pleasure, but somehow the compliment did not satisfy
her like the blunt praises he used to give her at home, when he
promenaded round her on festival occasions, and told her she was
'altogether jolly', with a hearty smile and an approving pat on the
head.  She didn't like the new tone, for though not blase, it sounded
indifferent in spite of the look.

"If that's the way he's going to grow up, I wish he'd stay a boy," she
thought, with a curious sense of disappointment and discomfort, trying
meantime to seem quite easy and gay.

At Avigdor's she found the precious home letters and, giving the reins
to Laurie, read them luxuriously as they wound up the shady road
between green hedges, where tea roses bloomed as freshly as in June.

"Beth is very poorly, Mother says.  I often think I ought to go home,
but they all say 'stay'.  So I do, for I shall never have another
chance like this," said Amy, looking sober over one page.

"I think you are right, there.  You could do nothing at home, and it is
a great comfort to them to know that you are well and happy, and
enjoying so much, my dear."

He drew a little nearer, and looked more like his old self as he said
that, and the fear that sometimes weighed on Amy's heart was lightened,
for the look, the act, the brotherly 'my dear', seemed to assure her
that if any trouble did come, she would not be alone in a strange land.
Presently she laughed and showed him a small sketch of Jo in her
scribbling suit, with the bow rampantly erect upon her cap, and issuing
from her mouth the words, 'Genius burns!'.

Laurie smiled, took it, put it in his vest pocket 'to keep it from
blowing away', and listened with interest to the lively letter Amy read
him.

"This will be a regularly merry Christmas to me, with presents in the
morning, you and letters in the afternoon, and a party at night," said
Amy, as they alighted among the ruins of the old fort, and a flock of
splendid peacocks came trooping about them, tamely waiting to be fed.
While Amy stood laughing on the bank above him as she scattered crumbs
to the brilliant birds, Laurie looked at her as she had looked at him,
with a natural curiosity to see what changes time and absence had
wrought.  He found nothing to perplex or disappoint, much to admire and
approve, for overlooking a few little affectations of speech and
manner, she was as sprightly and graceful as ever, with the addition of
that indescribable something in dress and bearing which we call
elegance.  Always mature for her age, she had gained a certain aplomb
in both carriage and conversation, which made her seem more of a woman
of the world than she was, but her old petulance now and then showed
itself, her strong will still held its own, and her native frankness
was unspoiled by foreign polish.

Laurie did not read all this while he watched her feed the peacocks,
but he saw enough to satisfy and interest him, and carried away a
pretty little picture of a bright-faced girl standing in the sunshine,
which brought out the soft hue of her dress, the fresh collar of her
cheeks, the golden gloss of her hair, and made her a prominent figure
in the pleasant scene.

As they came up onto the stone plateau that crowns the hill, Amy waved
her hand as if welcoming him to her favorite haunt, and said, pointing
here and there, "Do you remember the Cathedral and the Corso, the
fishermen dragging their nets in the bay, and the lovely road to Villa
Franca, Schubert's Tower, just below, and best of all, that speck far
out to sea which they say is Corsica?"

"I remember.  It's not much changed," he answered without enthusiasm.

"What Jo would give for a sight of that famous speck!" said Amy,
feeling in good spirits and anxious to see him so also.

"Yes," was all he said, but he turned and strained his eyes to see the
island which a greater usurper than even Napoleon now made interesting
in his sight.

"Take a good look at it for her sake, and then come and tell me what
you have been doing with yourself all this while," said Amy, seating
herself, ready for a good talk.

But she did not get it, for though he joined her and answered all her
questions freely, she could only learn that he had roved about the
Continent and been to Greece.  So after idling away an hour, they drove
home again, and having paid his respects to Mrs. Carrol, Laurie left
them, promising to return in the evening.

It must be recorded of Amy that she deliberately prinked that night.
Time and absence had done its work on both the young people. She had
seen her old friend in a new light, not as 'our boy', but as a handsome
and agreeable man, and she was conscious of a very natural desire to
find favor in his sight.  Amy knew her good points, and made the most
of them with the taste and skill which is a fortune to a poor and
pretty woman.

Tarlatan and tulle were cheap at Nice, so she enveloped herself in them
on such occasions, and following the sensible English fashion of simple
dress for young girls, got up charming little toilettes with fresh
flowers, a few trinkets, and all manner of dainty devices, which were
both inexpensive and effective.  It must be confessed that the artist
sometimes got possession of the woman, and indulged in antique
coiffures, statuesque attitudes, and classic draperies. But, dear
heart, we all have our little weaknesses, and find it easy to pardon
such in the young, who satisfy our eyes with their comeliness, and keep
our hearts merry with their artless vanities.

"I do want him to think I look well, and tell them so at home," said
Amy to herself, as she put on Flo's old white silk ball dress, and
covered it with a cloud of fresh illusion, out of which her white
shoulders and golden head emerged with a most artistic effect. Her hair
she had the sense to let alone, after gathering up the thick waves and
curls into a Hebe-like knot at the back of her head.

"It's not the fashion, but it's becoming, and I can't afford to make a
fright of myself," she used to say, when advised to frizzle, puff, or
braid, as the latest style commanded.

Having no ornaments fine enough for this important occasion, Amy looped
her fleecy skirts with rosy clusters of azalea, and framed the white
shoulders in delicate green vines.  Remembering the painted boots, she
surveyed her white satin slippers with girlish satisfaction, and
chasseed down the room, admiring her aristocratic feet all by herself.

"My new fan just matches my flowers, my gloves fit to a charm, and the
real lace on Aunt's mouchoir gives an air to my whole dress. If I only
had a classical nose and mouth I should be perfectly happy," she said,
surveying herself with a critical eye and a candle in each hand.

In spite of this affliction, she looked unusually gay and graceful as
she glided away.  She seldom ran--it did not suit her style, she
thought, for being tall, the stately and Junoesque was more appropriate
than the sportive or piquante.  She walked up and down the long saloon
while waiting for Laurie, and once arranged herself under the
chandelier, which had a good effect upon her hair, then she thought
better of it, and went away to the other end of the room, as if ashamed
of the girlish desire to have the first view a propitious one.  It so
happened that she could not have done a better thing, for Laurie came
in so quietly she did not hear him, and as she stood at the distant
window, with her head half turned and one hand gathering up her dress,
the slender, white figure against the red curtains was as effective as
a well-placed statue.

"Good evening, Diana!" said Laurie, with the look of satisfaction she
liked to see in his eyes when they rested on her.

"Good evening, Apollo!" she answered, smiling back at him, for he too
looked unusually debonair, and the thought of entering the ballroom on
the arm of such a personable man caused Amy to pity the four plain
Misses Davis from the bottom of her heart.

"Here are your flowers.  I arranged them myself, remembering that you
didn't like what Hannah calls a 'sot-bookay'," said Laurie, handing her
a delicate nosegay, in a holder that she had long coveted as she daily
passed it in Cardiglia's window.

"How kind you are!" she exclaimed gratefully.  "If I'd known you were
coming I'd have had something ready for you today, though not as pretty
as this, I'm afraid."

"Thank you.  It isn't what it should be, but you have improved it," he
added, as she snapped the silver bracelet on her wrist.

"Please don't."

"I thought you liked that sort of thing."

"Not from you, it doesn't sound natural, and I like your old bluntness
better."

"I'm glad of it," he answered, with a look of relief, then buttoned her
gloves for her, and asked if his tie was straight, just as he used to
do when they went to parties together at home.

The company assembled in the long salle a manger, that evening, was
such as one sees nowhere but on the Continent.  The hospitable
Americans had invited every acquaintance they had in Nice, and having
no prejudice against titles, secured a few to add luster to their
Christmas ball.

A Russian prince condescended to sit in a corner for an hour and talk
with a massive lady, dressed like Hamlet's mother in black velvet with
a pearl bridle under her chin.  A Polish count, aged eighteen, devoted
himself to the ladies, who pronounced him, 'a fascinating dear', and a
German Serene Something, having come to supper alone, roamed vaguely
about, seeking what he might devour.  Baron Rothschild's private
secretary, a large-nosed Jew in tight boots, affably beamed upon the
world, as if his master's name crowned him with a golden halo.  A stout
Frenchman, who knew the Emperor, came to indulge his mania for dancing,
and Lady de Jones, a British matron, adorned the scene with her little
family of eight.  Of course, there were many light-footed,
shrill-voiced American girls, handsome, lifeless-looking English ditto,
and a few plain but piquante French demoiselles, likewise the usual set
of traveling young gentlemen who disported themselves gaily, while
mammas of all nations lined the walls and smiled upon them benignly
when they danced with their daughters.

Any young girl can imagine Amy's state of mind when she 'took the
stage' that night, leaning on Laurie's arm.  She knew she looked well,
she loved to dance, she felt that her foot was on her native heath in a
ballroom, and enjoyed the delightful sense of power which comes when
young girls first discover the new and lovely kingdom they are born to
rule by virtue of beauty, youth, and womanhood.  She did pity the Davis
girls, who were awkward, plain, and destitute of escort, except a grim
papa and three grimmer maiden aunts, and she bowed to them in her
friendliest manner as she passed, which was good of her, as it
permitted them to see her dress, and burn with curiosity to know who
her distinguished-looking friend might be.  With the first burst of the
band, Amy's color rose, her eyes began to sparkle, and her feet to tap
the floor impatiently, for she danced well and wanted Laurie to know
it.  Therefore the shock she received can better be imagined than
described, when he said in a perfectly tranquil tone, "Do you care to
dance?"

"One usually does at a ball."

Her amazed look and quick answer caused Laurie to repair his error as
fast as possible.

"I meant the first dance.  May I have the honor?"

"I can give you one if I put off the Count.  He dances divinely, but he
will excuse me, as you are an old friend," said Amy, hoping that the
name would have a good effect, and show Laurie that she was not to be
trifled with.

"Nice little boy, but rather a short Pole to support...

    A daughter of the gods,
    Divinely tall, and most divinely fair,"

was all the satisfaction she got, however.

The set in which they found themselves was composed of English, and Amy
was compelled to walk decorously through a cotillion, feeling all the
while as if she could dance the tarantella with relish.  Laurie
resigned her to the 'nice little boy', and went to do his duty to Flo,
without securing Amy for the joys to come, which reprehensible want of
forethought was properly punished, for she immediately engaged herself
till supper, meaning to relent if he then gave any signs penitence. She
showed him her ball book with demure satisfaction when he strolled
instead of rushed up to claim her for the next, a glorious polka
redowa.  But his polite regrets didn't impose upon her, and when she
galloped away with the Count, she saw Laurie sit down by her aunt with
an actual expression of relief.

That was unpardonable, and Amy took no more notice of him for a long
while, except a word now and then when she came to her chaperon between
the dances for a necessary pin or a moment's rest.  Her anger had a
good effect, however, for she hid it under a smiling face, and seemed
unusually blithe and brilliant.  Laurie's eyes followed her with
pleasure, for she neither romped nor sauntered, but danced with spirit
and grace, making the delightsome pastime what it should be.  He very
naturally fell to studying her from this new point of view, and before
the evening was half over, had decided that 'little Amy was going to
make a very charming woman'.

It was a lively scene, for soon the spirit of the social season took
possession of everyone, and Christmas merriment made all faces shine,
hearts happy, and heels light.  The musicians fiddled, tooted, and
banged as if they enjoyed it, everybody danced who could, and those who
couldn't admired their neighbors with uncommon warmth.  The air was
dark with Davises, and many Joneses gamboled like a flock of young
giraffes.  The golden secretary darted through the room like a meteor
with a dashing French-woman who carpeted the floor with her pink satin
train.  The serene Teuton found the supper-table and was happy, eating
steadily through the bill of fare, and dismayed the garcons by the
ravages he committed.  But the Emperor's friend covered himself with
glory, for he danced everything, whether he knew it or not, and
introduced impromptu pirouettes when the figures bewildered him.  The
boyish abandon of that stout man was charming to behold, for though he
'carried weight', he danced like an India-rubber ball.  He ran, he
flew, he pranced, his face glowed, his bald head shown, his coattails
waved wildly, his pumps actually twinkled in the air, and when the
music stopped, he wiped the drops from his brow, and beamed upon his
fellow men like a French Pickwick without glasses.

Amy and her Pole distinguished themselves by equal enthusiasm but more
graceful agility, and Laurie found himself involuntarily keeping time
to the rhythmic rise and fall of the white slippers as they flew by as
indefatigably as if winged. When little Vladimir finally relinquished
her, with assurances that he was 'desolated to leave so early', she was
ready to rest, and see how her recreant knight had borne his punishment.

It had been successful, for at three-and-twenty, blighted affections
find a balm in friendly society, and young nerves will thrill, young
blood dance, and healthy young spirits rise, when subjected to the
enchantment of beauty, light, music, and motion.  Laurie had a waked-up
look as he rose to give her his seat, and when he hurried away to bring
her some supper, she said to herself, with a satisfied smile, "Ah, I
thought that would do him good!"

"You look like Balzac's '_Femme Peinte Par Elle-Meme_'," he said, as he
fanned her with one hand and held her coffee cup in the other.

"My rouge won't come off." and Amy rubbed her brilliant cheek, and
showed him her white glove with a sober simplicity that made him laugh
outright.

"What do you call this stuff?" he asked, touching a fold of her dress
that had blown over his knee.

"Illusion."

"Good name for it.  It's very pretty--new thing, isn't it?"

"It's as old as the hills.  You have seen it on dozens of girls, and
you never found out that it was pretty till now--stupide!"

"I never saw it on you before, which accounts for the mistake, you see."

"None of that, it is forbidden.  I'd rather take coffee than
compliments just now.  No, don't lounge, it makes me nervous."

Laurie sat bold upright, and meekly took her empty plate feeling an odd
sort of pleasure in having 'little Amy' order him about, for she had
lost her shyness now, and felt an irrestible desire to trample on him,
as girls have a delightful way of doing when lords of creation show any
signs of subjection.

"Where did you learn all this sort of thing?" he asked with a quizzical
look.

"As 'this sort of thing' is rather a vague expression, would you kindly
explain?" returned Amy, knowing perfectly well what he meant, but
wickedly leaving him to describe what is indescribable.

"Well--the general air, the style, the self-possession,
the--the--illusion--you know", laughed Laurie, breaking down and
helping himself out of his quandary with the new word.

Amy was gratified, but of course didn't show it, and demurely answered,
"Foreign life polishes one in spite of one's self.  I study as well as
play, and as for this"--with a little gesture toward her dress--"why,
tulle is cheap, posies to be had for nothing, and I am used to making
the most of my poor little things."

Amy rather regretted that last sentence, fearing it wasn't in good
taste, but Laurie liked her better for it, and found himself both
admiring and respecting the brave patience that made the most of
opportunity, and the cheerful spirit that covered poverty with flowers.
Amy did not know why he looked at her so kindly, nor why he filled up
her book with his own name, and devoted himself to her for the rest of
the evening in the most delightful manner; but the impulse that wrought
this agreeable change was the result of one of the new impressions
which both of them were unconsciously giving and receiving.

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

completion: New Impressions Laurie meets up with Amy in Nice, in southern France, on Christmas. They each find that the other has changed quite a bit. Laurie notes that Amy has grown into a sophisticated and lovely young woman. Amy sees that Laurie is more somber, but she also starts to see him as a handsome gentleman instead of a childhood friend. He escorts her to a ball in her hotel that evening. She deliberately tries to look extremely pretty for him. At first, he is not as attentive as she wants him to be. Toward the end of the night, however, when she merrily and honestly confesses to the little tricks she employs to make herself pretty despite her poverty, he is touched, and fills up her dance card with his own name