prompt:
Chapter: XXXIV. A FRIEND

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
self.

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 travelling and much up-hill work lead to this delightful _château
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 bean-stalks 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 money-bags.

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 business-like 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. Dashwood'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 often 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 to 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 should 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. Wrong-doing 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 every one 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 towards one's fellow-men could beautify and dignify
even a stout German teacher, who shovelled 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, 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 _entrée_ into literary 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.

                   [Illustration: A select symposium]

Jo went prepared to bow down and adore the mighty ones whom she had
worshipped 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 Staëls of the age, who looked daggers at another
Corinne, who was amiably satirizing her, after out-manœuvring 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 _désillusionée_,
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 conversation was 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, out-talked, but not one
whit convinced, Jo wanted to clap her hands and thank him.

She did neither; but she remembered this 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 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
head-gear, for he was going to read her the "Death of Wallenstein."

      [Illustration: He doesn't prink at his glass before coming]

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 an
air of 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 like to 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 whiskey, 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 sugar-plum, 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
re-read every one of her stories. Being a little short-sighted, 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 got 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 than 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.

         [Illustration: Jo stuffed the whole bundle into the stove]

"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 months' 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 father and
mother 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 till 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
bean-stalk 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
beside 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. Every one 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 good-by over night; 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 towzled
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 and 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."

          [Illustration: He put the sisters into the carriage]

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

completion: While she lives in New York and works at Mrs. Kirke's boarding house as a governess, Jo still finds time to write. Motivated by the desire to contribute to her family, especially to provide comforts for Beth in her illness, Jo tries to earn as much money as she can from writing. When Jo won a prize for her short story, she became really enthusiastic about writing; but after the disaster with her novel, she stopped for a while. Now Jo is back to writing regularly, trying to make her way as an authoress. She decides to write sensational stories - whatever will sell. Jo takes one of her sensation stories to Mr. Dashwood, the editor of a paper called the Weekly Volcano. Jo finds Mr. Dashwood in a smoky, dingy office with two other seedy-looking men. She tells him that she's bringing a manuscript for a friend of hers. Mr. Dashwood flips through Jo's manuscript and notices that she has some writing experience because of the way it's formatted. He tells her that she can leave it with him and come back next week for his answer. Jo doesn't want to leave the manuscript behind, but she doesn't know what else to do, so she agrees. When Jo goes back, Mr. Dashwood, alone this time, tells her that he will publish the story if she agrees to some editorial changes. Jo is surprised to discover that he's taken out the moral of the story, but Mr. Dashwood tells her that morals don't sell very well. Mr. Dashwood agrees to pay Jo $25-$30 for the story, which is a lot more than she was earning before. Mr. Dashwood tries to learn Jo's name, but she asks him to publish the story anonymously. They arrange for her to keep submitting stories to the Weekly Volcano. Mr. Dashwood advises her to make them short and exciting. Jo spends a lot of time and energy working on her stories. They are "sensation fiction" - pure entertainment and very unrealistic, about terrible crimes in haunting Gothic locations. Jo is a little uncomfortable because she hasn't told anyone, not even her family, that she is writing sensation fiction. She starts to get more and more involved in the details of her writing and researches methods of murder, details of crimes, and other immoral and un-feminine things. While Jo is being slowly corrupted by the fiction she's writing, she is also starting to realize what a good man Mr. Bhaer really is. The narrator thinks this might be the effect of studying character, especially in Shakespeare. Jo tries to figure out why everyone likes Mr. Bhaer so much. He is poor, plain-looking, and strange, but universally admired. She decides that it is because he is such a generous, positive person. When one of Mr. Bhaer's friends comes to visit him from Vienna, Jo learns that he is actually Professor Bhaer, a prominent German intellectual, widely respected for his learning and knowledge. Jo's friend Miss Norton takes Mr. Bhaer and Jo to many cultural and intellectual events in the city. One evening, they go to a symposium together. The symposium is being held in honor of some of the intellectual celebrities of the day, including a poet, a novelist, a theologian, and some scientists. Jo is disappointed to learn that they are only human - the poet is a greedy eater, the novelist drinks too much, the theologian is flirtatious, and the scientists gossip. At a refreshment break, Jo and Mr. Bhaer find themselves caught up in a philosophical conversation that downplays the importance of religion. Jo isn't sure what to think - the philosophy is dazzling, but feels wrong to her somehow. Mr. Bhaer tries to be polite, but finally feels morally obligated to argue with the philosophers. He defends traditional religious values and belief in God. Jo feels relieved. This conversation is only one of many incidents that strengthen Jo's respect for the professor. She wants him to like her, and she wants to be worthy of his respect. One evening, the professor comes in to give Jo her German lesson, having forgotten that he is still wearing a paper hat that Tina made. Jo laughs at the hat and the professor takes it off. When he looks at it, he realizes that it's made from a copy of a sensational newspaper - not the Weekly Volcano, but something pretty similar. He denounces the paper and says that things like it are morally corrupting for children and young people. You know, the kind of stuff people say today about video games and TV. Jo feels ashamed, because she writes similar material. The professor sees her blush and starts to realize what she has been writing; he's met her downtown sometimes around the newspaper offices. Trying to influence Jo, Mr. Bhaer continues to talk about the bad influence of sensation stories. Jo objects and says that sensation stories are only silly, not actively bad, and reminds him that there is a demand for them. Mr. Bhaer disagrees and tells Jo that there is a demand for lots of things, but that doesn't make them right. He burns the paper. Jo and Mr. Bhaer go back to their German lesson. That evening, Jo re-reads the stories she has written. She decides that Mr. Bhaer is right; the stories are too sensational, and they have corrupted her and her readers. Jo burns all the stories that she wrote for the Weekly Volcano. She thinks about whether she should keep the money she earned from them. Eventually, she decides that it's OK because she didn't do much harm yet, and her family can use the money. Jo wishes to herself that she didn't have a conscience - it's pretty inconvenient. Next, Jo tries writing heavily moralistic stories, but Mr. Dashwood won't publish them, and neither will anyone else. After that, Jo tries writing children's stories, but she can't find anyone to publish these the way that she's written them, either. Jo decides to stop writing for a little while; if she can't write anything good, she's not going to do it at all. What she doesn't realize is that Professor Bhaer has been observing her moral dilemma and is proud of her for her decision. Jo stays with Mrs. Kirke through the winter and spring and leaves the boarding house in June. Everyone is sorry to see her go. Jo invites Mr. Bhaer to come and see her in her hometown. He is pleased by the invitation, but when she mentions Laurie's upcoming graduation he gets depressed. Mr. Bhaer sees Jo off at the station, where she is glad to think that, even if she didn't earn a fortune or publish a great book, she has made a true friend.


prompt:
Chapter: XXXV. HEARTACHE.

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
to-morrow; 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 jews-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 little feelings. A call
at Meg's, and a refreshing sniff and sip at the Daisy and Demijohn,
still further fortified her for the _tête-à-tête_, 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 jews-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 far-away 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 impetuosity, 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 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."

"Yes, 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 see 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 that 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.

        [Illustration: He laid his head down on the mossy post]

"O Teddy, I'm so 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 some one else too, like a sensible boy, and forget all this
trouble."

"I _can't_ love any one 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
unmanageable 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 it 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 you 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! Every one 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 bare 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 any 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 tragical.

"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 fire to 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 many a 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 sha'n'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
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 Pathétique," 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 just 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 some one 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 till you take my place, and can be off
at any time."

"But you hate travelling, 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 travelling 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 gentlemen 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 tragical
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 every one 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
gayety 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 both
eloquent and pathetic.

"O Jo, can't you?"

                    [Illustration: O 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.

                       [Illustration: Tail-piece]

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

completion: Laurie studies hard and graduates with honor. The Marches and Brookes attend his graduation. Laurie has to stay in his college town for a graduation dinner, while his family and friends return home. He hands Jo into her carriage and asks her to come meet him when he arrives the next morning. Jo notices the way Laurie is looking at her and starts to worry about his feelings. The next day, Jo has decided that she's just being vain. She stops at Meg's house and plays with her niece and nephew on her way to meet Laurie. Jo and Laurie begin walking home together. Laurie talks about all kinds of things and seems distracted. There's an awkward pause, and then Jo asks Laurie not to say the things he's about to. Laurie insists that Jo hear out his proposal. Jo agrees to listen. Laurie declares that he's loved Jo ever since he first met her. Jo is upset and says she was trying to spare Laurie this scene. Laurie says that women are contrary and say no when they mean yes, so he's never been sure of how she felt. Jo says that she's never been the kind of person who said one thing and meant another. Jo tells Laurie that she went away to try and stop his feelings for her from developing. He says that he knew that, but it was no use, and he worked hard in college just to please her. Jo says that Laurie is too good for her and that she doesn't know why she can't love him, but that she just can't. Laurie stops completely still and rests his head on a fence post. Jo is frightened by how depressed he seems and starts apologizing, explaining that she would love him if she could, but love isn't something you can force. Jo says she has something to tell Laurie. Laurie gets angry because he thinks that she's going to say she's in love with Professor Bhaer. Jo defends the professor against Laurie's insults, but says that she doesn't love him either - that she doesn't have romantic feelings for anyone. Jo convinces Laurie to calm down and listen to her. She says that she agrees with her mother that she and Laurie aren't suited for one another - they both have serious tempers! Laurie promises to be calm and saint-like if Jo agrees to marry him. Jo says that's ridiculous and they would never be happy together. Laurie asks Jo to marry him so that they don't disappoint his grandfather, who really wants them to get together. Jo continues to refuse - she can't give Laurie a genuine "yes," so she won't give him any kind of yes. Jo tells Laurie that he will get over her and find a more elegant woman who would make a better wife for him as a rich man. She says that she doesn't think she'll ever get married. Laurie is angry. He says that he knows someday Jo will fall in love with someone, very passionately, and he can't bear to watch. Jo finally loses her patience and says that maybe she will love someone else someday, but she's done her best to do right by Laurie. They can always be friends, she says, but nothing else. Laurie says that Jo's going to be sorry one day and storms off. Jo watches as Laurie stomps off to the river and leaps into his boat and starts rowing away violently. She's relieved, because she thinks the exercise will help him calm down. Jo goes to Mr. Laurence and tells him what has happened. The old man cries, but he doesn't get mad at her. He knows that you can't force love. Mr. Laurence resolves to take Laurie away from the town to give him time to recover. Laurie comes home, tired but calm. He and his grandfather behave as if nothing has happened. Then Laurie goes to the piano and starts playing sad, pathetic music. Mr. Laurence asks Laurie to play something more cheerful. Laurie tries to, but then he hears Mrs. March calling for Jo next door and breaks off. Mr. Laurence goes over to Laurie and puts comforting hands on his shoulders. He explains that he knows what happened. Mr. Laurence suggests that Laurie take a trip abroad and try to forget about Jo. He offers to go with his grandson so that they can have some special family bonding time. Mr. Laurence explains his plan a little more. He wants Laurie to take care of some business for him in London. In the meantime, John Brooke can look after their affairs at home. Laurie starts to feel guilty, because he knows his grandfather doesn't like to travel and is making a sacrifice for him. Mr. Laurence says that he's not going to be a burden - he'll stay in London and Paris and let Laurie travel around Europe independently, seeing museums and hearing amazing music. Laurie agrees, but his heart isn't in it. Mr. Laurence makes him promise to use his liberty honestly. This is nineteenth-century code for "don't take a mistress or lose all your money gambling like an idiot or become an alcoholic." Mr. Laurence and his grandson leave town shortly afterward. As Laurie says goodbye to the March family, he asks Jo one more time if she can bring herself to marry him. She says that she wishes she could, but no. Laurie leaves, and Jo feels terrible. She knows he'll never be the same.


prompt:
Chapter: XXXVI. BETH'S SECRET.

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 little 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 the 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 any one 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 shadow 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.

     [Illustration: With her head in Jo's lap, while the wind blew
                        healthfully over her]

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
gathering. 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 any one. 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."

"O Beth, and you didn't tell me, didn't let me comfort and help you! How
could you shut me out, and 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
good-by 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 that 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, deary? I was afraid it was so, and imagined your poor
little heart full of love-lornity 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 never could 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 to 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 any one 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,
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
turtle-dove, 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 at 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 mantel-piece, 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.

                       [Illustration: Tail-piece]

             [Illustration: He hurried forward to meet her]

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

completion: When Jo comes home from New York, she is shocked by how much sicker Beth seems. At first Jo forgets about Beth's illness because she's caught up with Laurie's proposal, but after Laurie leaves she notices again. Jo takes Beth on a trip to the seashore, hoping the nice weather and the sea air will help her get better. This was a pretty common nineteenth-century idea - people often went to the coast or to a warmer climate when they were sick. Jo and Beth spend several weeks at the seaside together. Jo takes care of Beth, and the sisters ignore the outside world. Jo wonders how her parents haven't noticed that Beth seems to be dying. She hopes they'll notice for themselves when she and Beth return home. One day, Beth begins to talk to Jo about it. She figures out that Jo has realized she's dying, and says she's glad Jo knows. As the sisters talk about Beth's death, Jo realizes that Beth was never lovesick for Laurie - she was just grieving because she discovered that she was dying. Beth says that she's reconciled herself to it. Jo insists that Beth can get well and says that nineteen is too young to die. Beth, however, is convinced that she is dying and just focuses on her faith. Beth makes Jo promise to tell their parents about her condition. Jo does. Beth tells Jo that she thinks she wasn't meant to live for very long. She never had dreams of getting married or doing something ambitious with her life. Beth watches the birds outside her window. She uses the birds as a metaphor for herself and her sisters - she is like a peep, a docile bird that stays near the shore and sings, just the way she likes to stay at home and take care of the family. Beth thinks that Jo is like a gull, strong and wild, Meg a turtledove, the symbol of a lover, and Amy a lark, flying high but also returning to the nest. We think this novel is like an extra spoonful of sugar in a jar of honey - a little too much. Jo promises to help make Beth's last days happy and gives her sister a kiss. When Jo and Beth return home, their parents realize that Beth is dying. Jo comforts them without words.