prompt:
Chapter: XX. CONFIDENTIAL

I don't think I have any words in which to tell the meeting of the
mother and daughters; such hours are beautiful to live, but very hard to
describe, so I will leave it to the imagination of my readers, merely
saying that the house was full of genuine happiness, and that Meg's
tender hope was realized; for when Beth woke from that long, healing
sleep, the first objects on which her eyes fell _were_ the little rose
and mother's face. Too weak to wonder at anything, she only smiled, and
nestled close into the loving arms about her, feeling that the hungry
longing was satisfied at last. Then she slept again, and the girls
waited upon their mother, for she would not unclasp the thin hand which
clung to hers even in sleep. Hannah had "dished up" an astonishing
breakfast for the traveller, finding it impossible to vent her
excitement in any other way; and Meg and Jo fed their mother like
dutiful young storks, while they listened to her whispered account of
father's state, Mr. Brooke's promise to stay and nurse him, the delays
which the storm occasioned on the homeward journey, and the unspeakable
comfort Laurie's hopeful face had given her when she arrived, worn out
with fatigue, anxiety, and cold.

What a strange, yet pleasant day that was! so brilliant and gay without,
for all the world seemed abroad to welcome the first snow; so quiet and
reposeful within, for every one slept, spent with watching, and a
Sabbath stillness reigned through the house, while nodding Hannah
mounted guard at the door. With a blissful sense of burdens lifted off,
Meg and Jo closed their weary eyes, and lay at rest, like storm-beaten
boats, safe at anchor in a quiet harbor. Mrs. March would not leave
Beth's side, but rested in the big chair, waking often to look at,
touch, and brood over her child, like a miser over some recovered
treasure.

Laurie, meanwhile, posted off to comfort Amy, and told his story so well
that Aunt March actually "sniffed" herself, and never once said, "I told
you so." Amy came out so strong on this occasion that I think the good
thoughts in the little chapel really began to bear fruit. She dried her
tears quickly, restrained her impatience to see her mother, and never
even thought of the turquoise ring, when the old lady heartily agreed in
Laurie's opinion, that she behaved "like a capital little woman." Even
Polly seemed impressed, for he called her "good girl," blessed her
buttons, and begged her to "come and take a walk, dear," in his most
affable tone. She would very gladly have gone out to enjoy the bright
wintry weather; but, discovering that Laurie was dropping with sleep in
spite of manful efforts to conceal the fact, she persuaded him to rest
on the sofa, while she wrote a note to her mother. She was a long time
about it; and, when she returned, he was stretched out, with both arms
under his head, sound asleep, while Aunt March had pulled down the
curtains, and sat doing nothing in an unusual fit of benignity.

After a while, they began to think he was not going to wake till night,
and I'm not sure that he would, had he not been effectually roused by
Amy's cry of joy at sight of her mother. There probably were a good
many happy little girls in and about the city that day, but it is my
private opinion that Amy was the happiest of all, when she sat in her
mother's lap and told her trials, receiving consolation and compensation
in the shape of approving smiles and fond caresses. They were alone
together in the chapel, to which her mother did not object when its
purpose was explained to her.

"On the contrary, I like it very much, dear," looking from the dusty
rosary to the well-worn little book, and the lovely picture with its
garland of evergreen. "It is an excellent plan to have some place where
we can go to be quiet, when things vex or grieve us. There are a good
many hard times in this life of ours, but we can always bear them if we
ask help in the right way. I think my little girl is learning this?"

"Yes, mother; and when I go home I mean to have a corner in the big
closet to put my books, and the copy of that picture which I've tried to
make. The woman's face is not good,--it's too beautiful for me to
draw,--but the baby is done better, and I love it very much. I like to
think He was a little child once, for then I don't seem so far away, and
that helps me."

As Amy pointed to the smiling Christ-child on his mother's knee, Mrs.
March saw something on the lifted hand that made her smile. She said
nothing, but Amy understood the look, and, after a minute's pause, she
added gravely,--

"I wanted to speak to you about this, but I forgot it. Aunt gave me the
ring to-day; she called me to her and kissed me, and put it on my
finger, and said I was a credit to her, and she'd like to keep me
always. She gave that funny guard to keep the turquoise on, as it's too
big. I'd like to wear them, mother; can I?"

"They are very pretty, but I think you're rather too young for such
ornaments, Amy," said Mrs. March, looking at the plump little hand, with
the band of sky-blue stones on the forefinger, and the quaint guard,
formed of two tiny, golden hands clasped together.

"I'll try not to be vain," said Amy. "I don't think I like it only
because it's so pretty; but I want to wear it as the girl in the story
wore her bracelet, to remind me of something."

"Do you mean Aunt March?" asked her mother, laughing.

"No, to remind me not to be selfish." Amy looked so earnest and sincere
about it, that her mother stopped laughing, and listened respectfully to
the little plan.

"I've thought a great deal lately about my 'bundle of naughties,' and
being selfish is the largest one in it; so I'm going to try hard to cure
it, if I can. Beth isn't selfish, and that's the reason every one loves
her and feels so bad at the thoughts of losing her. People wouldn't feel
half so bad about me if I was sick, and I don't deserve to have them;
but I'd like to be loved and missed by a great many friends, so I'm
going to try and be like Beth all I can. I'm apt to forget my
resolutions; but if I had something always about me to remind me, I
guess I should do better. May I try this way?"

"Yes; but I have more faith in the corner of the big closet. Wear your
ring, dear, and do your best; I think you will prosper, for the sincere
wish to be good is half the battle. Now I must go back to Beth. Keep up
your heart, little daughter, and we will soon have you home again."

That evening, while Meg was writing to her father, to report the
traveller's safe arrival, Jo slipped up stairs into Beth's room, and,
finding her mother in her usual place, stood a minute twisting her
fingers in her hair, with a worried gesture and an undecided look.

"What is it, deary?" asked Mrs. March, holding out her hand, with a face
which invited confidence.

"I want to tell you something, mother."

"About Meg?"

"How quickly you guessed! Yes, it's about her, and though it's a little
thing, it fidgets me."

"Beth is asleep; speak low, and tell me all about it. That Moffat hasn't
been here, I hope?" asked Mrs. March rather sharply.

"No, I should have shut the door in his face if he had," said Jo,
settling herself on the floor at her mother's feet. "Last summer Meg
left a pair of gloves over at the Laurences', and only one was returned.
We forgot all about it, till Teddy told me that Mr. Brooke had it. He
kept it in his waistcoat pocket, and once it fell out, and Teddy joked
him about it, and Mr. Brooke owned that he liked Meg, but didn't dare
say so, she was so young and he so poor. Now, isn't it a _dread_ful
state of things?"

"Do you think Meg cares for him?" asked Mrs. March, with an anxious
look.

"Mercy me! I don't know anything about love and such nonsense!" cried
Jo, with a funny mixture of interest and contempt. "In novels, the girls
show it by starting and blushing, fainting away, growing thin, and
acting like fools. Now Meg does not do anything of the sort: she eats
and drinks and sleeps, like a sensible creature: she looks straight in
my face when I talk about that man, and only blushes a little bit when
Teddy jokes about lovers. I forbid him to do it, but he doesn't mind me
as he ought."

"Then you fancy that Meg is _not_ interested in John?"

"Who?" cried Jo, staring.

"Mr. Brooke. I call him 'John' now; we fell into the way of doing so at
the hospital, and he likes it."

"Oh, dear! I know you'll take his part: he's been good to father, and
you won't send him away, but let Meg marry him, if she wants to. Mean
thing! to go petting papa and helping you, just to wheedle you into
liking him;" and Jo pulled her hair again with a wrathful tweak.

"My dear, don't get angry about it, and I will tell you how it happened.
John went with me at Mr. Laurence's request, and was so devoted to poor
father that we couldn't help getting fond of him. He was perfectly open
and honorable about Meg, for he told us he loved her, but would earn a
comfortable home before he asked her to marry him. He only wanted our
leave to love her and work for her, and the right to make her love him
if he could. He is a truly excellent young man, and we could not refuse
to listen to him; but I will not consent to Meg's engaging herself so
young."

"Of course not; it would be idiotic! I knew there was mischief brewing;
I felt it; and now it's worse than I imagined. I just wish I could marry
Meg myself, and keep her safe in the family."

This odd arrangement made Mrs. March smile; but she said gravely, "Jo, I
confide in you, and don't wish you to say anything to Meg yet. When John
comes back, and I see them together, I can judge better of her feelings
toward him."

"She'll see his in those handsome eyes that she talks about, and then
it will be all up with her. She's got such a soft heart, it will melt
like butter in the sun if any one looks sentimentally at her. She read
the short reports he sent more than she did your letters, and pinched me
when I spoke of it, and likes brown eyes, and doesn't think John an ugly
name, and she'll go and fall in love, and there's an end of peace and
fun, and cosy times together. I see it all! they'll go lovering around
the house, and we shall have to dodge; Meg will be absorbed, and no good
to me any more; Brooke will scratch up a fortune somehow, carry her off,
and make a hole in the family; and I shall break my heart, and
everything will be abominably uncomfortable. Oh, dear me! why weren't we
all boys, then there wouldn't be any bother."

Jo leaned her chin on her knees, in a disconsolate attitude, and shook
her fist at the reprehensible John. Mrs. March sighed, and Jo looked up
with an air of relief.

"You don't like it, mother? I'm glad of it. Let's send him about his
business, and not tell Meg a word of it, but all be happy together as we
always have been."

"I did wrong to sigh, Jo. It is natural and right you should all go to
homes of your own, in time; but I do want to keep my girls as long as I
can; and I am sorry that this happened so soon, for Meg is only
seventeen, and it will be some years before John can make a home for
her. Your father and I have agreed that she shall not bind herself in
any way, nor be married, before twenty. If she and John love one
another, they can wait, and test the love by doing so. She is
conscientious, and I have no fear of her treating him unkindly. My
pretty, tender-hearted girl! I hope things will go happily with her."

"Hadn't you rather have her marry a rich man?" asked Jo, as her mother's
voice faltered a little over the last words.

"Money is a good and useful thing, Jo; and I hope my girls will never
feel the need of it too bitterly, nor be tempted by too much. I should
like to know that John was firmly established in some good business,
which gave him an income large enough to keep free from debt and make
Meg comfortable. I'm not ambitious for a splendid fortune, a fashionable
position, or a great name for my girls. If rank and money come with
love and virtue, also, I should accept them gratefully, and enjoy your
good fortune; but I know, by experience, how much genuine happiness can
be had in a plain little house, where the daily bread is earned, and
some privations give sweetness to the few pleasures. I am content to see
Meg begin humbly, for, if I am not mistaken, she will be rich in the
possession of a good man's heart, and that is better than a fortune."

"I understand, mother, and quite agree; but I'm disappointed about Meg,
for I'd planned to have her marry Teddy by and by, and sit in the lap of
luxury all her days. Wouldn't it be nice?" asked Jo, looking up, with a
brighter face.

"He is younger than she, you know," began Mrs. March; but Jo broke in,--

"Only a little; he's old for his age, and tall; and can be quite
grown-up in his manners if he likes. Then he's rich and generous and
good, and loves us all; and _I_ say it's a pity my plan is spoilt."

"I'm afraid Laurie is hardly grown up enough for Meg, and altogether too
much of a weathercock, just now, for any one to depend on. Don't make
plans, Jo; but let time and their own hearts mate your friends. We can't
meddle safely in such matters, and had better not get 'romantic
rubbish,' as you call it, into our heads, lest it spoil our friendship."

"Well, I won't; but I hate to see things going all criss-cross and
getting snarled up, when a pull here and a snip there would straighten
it out. I wish wearing flat-irons on our heads would keep us from
growing up. But buds will be roses, and kittens, cats,--more's the
pity!"

"What's that about flat-irons and cats?" asked Meg, as she crept into
the room, with the finished letter in her hand.

"Only one of my stupid speeches. I'm going to bed; come, Peggy," said
Jo, unfolding herself, like an animated puzzle.

"Quite right, and beautifully written. Please add that I send my love to
John," said Mrs. March, as she glanced over the letter, and gave it
back.

"Do you call him 'John'?" asked Meg, smiling, with her innocent eyes
looking down into her mother's.

"Yes; he has been like a son to us, and we are very fond of him,"
replied Mrs. March, returning the look with a keen one.

"I'm glad of that, he is so lonely. Good-night, mother, dear. It is so
inexpressibly comfortable to have you here," was Meg's quiet answer.

The kiss her mother gave her was a very tender one; and, as she went
away, Mrs. March said, with a mixture of satisfaction and regret, "She
does not love John yet, but will soon learn to."

                       [Illustration: Tail-piece]

                        [Illustration: Letters]

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

completion: Confidential Marmee's delayed arrival from the train is received with great tenderness and love. After delivering Mrs. March, Laurie rushes off to tell Amy and Aunt March the news. Amy patiently and selflessly suppresses her desire to see her mother and gains praise from Laurie and Aunt March, who gives Amy the turquoise ring for being so well-behaved. However, Marmee does come to see Amy that afternoon, to her great delight. They sit together in Amy's little chapel and discuss Amy's quest to be good. Marmee is at first concerned by the ring, as she thinks Amy is too young, but Amy explains that she wants to wear the ring to remind herself not to be selfish, so that she will be loved as Beth is. Marmee applauds Amy's intention, and then returns to Beth. That evening, Jo confides in Marmee that Mr. Brooke cares for Meg and has her glove. Marmee says Mr. Brooke grew quite close to her and Father at the hospital, and that John told them honestly about his care for Meg and his plan to earn a comfortable home before asking for her hand. Marmee and Father feel that John is a good man, though poor, but that Meg is too young to be engaged. Marmee asks Jo to keep the secret from Meg until Marmee can discern Meg's feelings for John. Jo believes John will romance Meg, and things will change, and their happy life will be spoilt. When Meg comes in, Marmee speaks of John fondly, and gauging Meg's response, decides that Meg "does not love John yet, but she will learn to


prompt:
Chapter: XXI. LAURIE MAKES MISCHIEF, AND JO MAKES PEACE.

Jo's face was a study next day, for the secret rather weighed upon her,
and she found it hard not to look mysterious and important. Meg observed
it, but did not trouble herself to make inquiries, for she had learned
that the best way to manage Jo was by the law of contraries, so she felt
sure of being told everything if she did not ask. She was rather
surprised, therefore, when the silence remained unbroken, and Jo assumed
a patronizing air, which decidedly aggravated Meg, who in her turn
assumed an air of dignified reserve, and devoted herself to her mother.
This left Jo to her own devices; for Mrs. March had taken her place as
nurse, and bade her rest, exercise, and amuse herself after her long
confinement. Amy being gone, Laurie was her only refuge; and, much as
she enjoyed his society, she rather dreaded him just then, for he was an
incorrigible tease, and she feared he would coax her secret from her.

She was quite right, for the mischief-loving lad no sooner suspected a
mystery than he set himself to find it out, and led Jo a trying life of
it. He wheedled, bribed, ridiculed, threatened, and scolded; affected
indifference, that he might surprise the truth from her; declared he
knew, then that he didn't care; and, at last, by dint of perseverance,
he satisfied himself that it concerned Meg and Mr. Brooke. Feeling
indignant that he was not taken into his tutor's confidence, he set his
wits to work to devise some proper retaliation for the slight.

Meg meanwhile had apparently forgotten the matter, and was absorbed in
preparations for her father's return; but all of a sudden a change
seemed to come over her, and, for a day or two, she was quite unlike
herself. She started when spoken to, blushed when looked at, was very
quiet, and sat over her sewing, with a timid, troubled look on her face.
To her mother's inquiries she answered that she was quite well, and Jo's
she silenced by begging to be let alone.

"She feels it in the air--love, I mean--and she's going very fast. She's
got most of the symptoms,--is twittery and cross, doesn't eat, lies
awake, and mopes in corners. I caught her singing that song he gave her,
and once she said 'John,' as you do, and then turned as red as a poppy.
Whatever shall we do?" said Jo, looking ready for any measures, however
violent.

"Nothing but wait. Let her alone, be kind and patient, and father's
coming will settle everything," replied her mother.

"Here's a note to you, Meg, all sealed up. How odd! Teddy never seals
mine," said Jo, next day, as she distributed the contents of the little
post-office.

Mrs. March and Jo were deep in their own affairs, when a sound from Meg
made them look up to see her staring at her note, with a frightened
face.

"My child, what is it?" cried her mother, running to her, while Jo tried
to take the paper which had done the mischief.

"It's all a mistake--he didn't send it. O Jo, how could you do it?" and
Meg hid her face in her hands, crying as if her heart was quite broken.

"Me! I've done nothing! What's she talking about?" cried Jo, bewildered.

Meg's mild eyes kindled with anger as she pulled a crumpled note from
her pocket, and threw it at Jo, saying reproachfully,--

"You wrote it, and that bad boy helped you. How could you be so rude, so
mean, and cruel to us both?"

Jo hardly heard her, for she and her mother were reading the note, which
was written in a peculiar hand.

        [Illustration: Jo and her mother were reading the note]

    "MY DEAREST MARGARET,--

    "I can no longer restrain my passion, and must know my fate
    before I return. I dare not tell your parents yet, but I think
    they would consent if they knew that we adored one another. Mr.
    Laurence will help me to some good place, and then, my sweet
    girl, you will make me happy. I implore you to say nothing to
    your family yet, but to send one word of hope through Laurie to
                                            "Your devoted JOHN."

"Oh, the little villain! that's the way he meant to pay me for keeping
my word to mother. I'll give him a hearty scolding, and bring him over
to beg pardon," cried Jo, burning to execute immediate justice. But her
mother held her back, saying, with a look she seldom wore,--

"Stop, Jo, you must clear yourself first. You have played so many
pranks, that I am afraid you have had a hand in this."

"On my word, mother, I haven't! I never saw that note before, and don't
know anything about it, as true as I live!" said Jo, so earnestly that
they believed her. "If I _had_ taken a part in it I'd have done it
better than this, and have written a sensible note. I should think you'd
have known Mr. Brooke wouldn't write such stuff as that," she added,
scornfully tossing down the paper.

"It's like his writing," faltered Meg, comparing it with the note in her
hand.

"O Meg, you didn't answer it?" cried Mrs. March quickly.

"Yes, I did!" and Meg hid her face again, overcome with shame.

"Here's a scrape! _Do_ let me bring that wicked boy over to explain, and
be lectured. I can't rest till I get hold of him;" and Jo made for the
door again.

"Hush! let me manage this, for it is worse than I thought. Margaret,
tell me the whole story," commanded Mrs. March, sitting down by Meg, yet
keeping hold of Jo, lest she should fly off.

"I received the first letter from Laurie, who didn't look as if he knew
anything about it," began Meg, without looking up. "I was worried at
first, and meant to tell you; then I remembered how you liked Mr.
Brooke, so I thought you wouldn't mind if I kept my little secret for a
few days. I'm so silly that I liked to think no one knew; and, while I
was deciding what to say, I felt like the girls in books, who have such
things to do. Forgive me, mother, I'm paid for my silliness now; I never
can look him in the face again."

"What did you say to him?" asked Mrs. March.

"I only said I was too young to do anything about it yet; that I didn't
wish to have secrets from you, and he must speak to father. I was very
grateful for his kindness, and would be his friend, but nothing more,
for a long while."

Mrs. March smiled, as if well pleased, and Jo clapped her hands,
exclaiming, with a laugh,--

"You are almost equal to Caroline Percy, who was a pattern of prudence!
Tell on, Meg. What did he say to that?"

"He writes in a different way entirely, telling me that he never sent
any love-letter at all, and is very sorry that my roguish sister, Jo,
should take such liberties with our names. It's very kind and
respectful, but think how dreadful for me!"

Meg leaned against her mother, looking the image of despair, and Jo
tramped about the room, calling Laurie names. All of a sudden she
stopped, caught up the two notes, and, after looking at them closely,
said decidedly, "I don't believe Brooke ever saw either of these
letters. Teddy wrote both, and keeps yours to crow over me with, because
I wouldn't tell him my secret."

"Don't have any secrets, Jo; tell it to mother, and keep out of trouble,
as I should have done," said Meg warningly.

"Bless you, child! Mother told me."

"That will do, Jo. I'll comfort Meg while you go and get Laurie. I shall
sift the matter to the bottom, and put a stop to such pranks at once."

Away ran Jo, and Mrs. March gently told Meg Mr. Brooke's real feelings.
"Now, dear, what are your own? Do you love him enough to wait till he
can make a home for you, or will you keep yourself quite free for the
present?"

"I've been so scared and worried, I don't want to have anything to do
with lovers for a long while,--perhaps never," answered Meg petulantly.
"If John _doesn't_ know anything about this nonsense, don't tell him,
and make Jo and Laurie hold their tongues. I won't be deceived and
plagued and made a fool of,--it's a shame!"

Seeing that Meg's usually gentle temper was roused and her pride hurt by
this mischievous joke, Mrs. March soothed her by promises of entire
silence, and great discretion for the future. The instant Laurie's step
was heard in the hall, Meg fled into the study, and Mrs. March received
the culprit alone. Jo had not told him why he was wanted, fearing he
wouldn't come; but he knew the minute he saw Mrs. March's face, and
stood twirling his hat, with a guilty air which convicted him at once.
Jo was dismissed, but chose to march up and down the hall like a
sentinel, having some fear that the prisoner might bolt. The sound of
voices in the parlor rose and fell for half an hour; but what happened
during that interview the girls never knew.

When they were called in, Laurie was standing by their mother, with such
a penitent face that Jo forgave him on the spot, but did not think it
wise to betray the fact. Meg received his humble apology, and was much
comforted by the assurance that Brooke knew nothing of the joke.

"I'll never tell him to my dying day,--wild horses sha'n't drag it out
of me; so you'll forgive me, Meg, and I'll do anything to show how
out-and-out sorry I am," he added, looking very much ashamed of himself.

"I'll try; but it was a very ungentlemanly thing to do. I didn't think
you could be so sly and malicious, Laurie," replied Meg, trying to hide
her maidenly confusion under a gravely reproachful air.

"It was altogether abominable, and I don't deserve to be spoken to for a
month; but you will, though, won't you?" and Laurie folded his hands
together with such an imploring gesture, as he spoke in his irresistibly
persuasive tone, that it was impossible to frown upon him, in spite of
his scandalous behavior. Meg pardoned him, and Mrs. March's grave face
relaxed, in spite of her efforts to keep sober, when she heard him
declare that he would atone for his sins by all sorts of penances, and
abase himself like a worm before the injured damsel.

Jo stood aloof, meanwhile, trying to harden her heart against him, and
succeeding only in primming up her face into an expression of entire
disapprobation. Laurie looked at her once or twice, but, as she showed
no sign of relenting, he felt injured, and turned his back on her till
the others were done with him, when he made her a low bow, and walked
off without a word.

As soon as he had gone, she wished she had been more forgiving; and when
Meg and her mother went upstairs, she felt lonely, and longed for Teddy.
After resisting for some time, she yielded to the impulse, and, armed
with a book to return, went over to the big house.

"Is Mr. Laurence in?" asked Jo, of a housemaid, who was coming down
stairs.

"Yes, miss; but I don't believe he's seeable just yet."

"Why not? is he ill?"

"La, no, miss, but he's had a scene with Mr. Laurie, who is in one of
his tantrums about something, which vexes the old gentleman, so I
dursn't go nigh him."

"Where is Laurie?"

"Shut up in his room, and he won't answer, though I've been a-tapping. I
don't know what's to become of the dinner, for it's ready, and there's
no one to eat it."

"I'll go and see what the matter is. I'm not afraid of either of them."

Up went Jo, and knocked smartly on the door of Laurie's little study.

"Stop that, or I'll open the door and make you!" called out the young
gentleman, in a threatening tone.

Jo immediately knocked again; the door flew open, and in she bounced,
before Laurie could recover from his surprise. Seeing that he really
_was_ out of temper, Jo, who knew how to manage him, assumed a contrite
expression, and going artistically down upon her knees, said meekly,
"Please forgive me for being so cross. I came to make it up, and can't
go away till I have."

"It's all right. Get up, and don't be a goose, Jo," was the cavalier
reply to her petition.

              [Illustration: Get up and don't be a goose]

"Thank you; I will. Could I ask what's the matter? You don't look
exactly easy in your mind."

"I've been shaken, and I won't bear it!" growled Laurie indignantly.

"Who did it?" demanded Jo.

"Grandfather; if it had been any one else I'd have--" and the injured
youth finished his sentence by an energetic gesture of the right arm.

"That's nothing; I often shake you, and you don't mind," said Jo
soothingly.

"Pooh! you're a girl, and it's fun; but I'll allow no man to shake
_me_."

"I don't think any one would care to try it, if you looked as much like
a thunder-cloud as you do now. Why were you treated so?"

"Just because I wouldn't say what your mother wanted me for. I'd
promised not to tell, and of course I wasn't going to break my word."

"Couldn't you satisfy your grandpa in any other way?"

"No; he _would_ have the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the
truth. I'd have told my part of the scrape, if I could without bringing
Meg in. As I couldn't, I held my tongue, and bore the scolding till the
old gentleman collared me. Then I got angry, and bolted, for fear I
should forget myself."

"It wasn't nice, but he's sorry, I know; so go down and make up. I'll
help you."

"Hanged if I do! I'm not going to be lectured and pummelled by every
one, just for a bit of a frolic. I _was_ sorry about Meg, and begged
pardon like a man; but I won't do it again, when I wasn't in the wrong."

"He didn't know that."

"He ought to trust me, and not act as if I was a baby. It's no use, Jo;
he's got to learn that I'm able to take care of myself, and don't need
any one's apron-string to hold on by."

"What pepper-pots you are!" sighed Jo. "How do you mean to settle this
affair?"

"Well, he ought to beg pardon, and believe me when I say I can't tell
him what the fuss's about."

"Bless you! he won't do that."

"I won't go down till he does."

"Now, Teddy, be sensible; let it pass, and I'll explain what I can. You
can't stay here, so what's the use of being melodramatic?"

"I don't intend to stay here long, any way. I'll slip off and take a
journey somewhere, and when grandpa misses me he'll come round fast
enough."

"I dare say; but you ought not to go and worry him."

"Don't preach. I'll go to Washington and see Brooke; it's gay there, and
I'll enjoy myself after the troubles."

"What fun you'd have! I wish I could run off too," said Jo, forgetting
her part of Mentor in lively visions of martial life at the capital.

"Come on, then! Why not? You go and surprise your father, and I'll stir
up old Brooke. It would be a glorious joke; let's do it, Jo. We'll leave
a letter saying we are all right, and trot off at once. I've got money
enough; it will do you good, and be no harm, as you go to your father."

For a moment Jo looked as if she would agree; for, wild as the plan was,
it just suited her. She was tired of care and confinement, longed for
change, and thoughts of her father blended temptingly with the novel
charms of camps and hospitals, liberty and fun. Her eyes kindled as they
turned wistfully toward the window, but they fell on the old house
opposite, and she shook her head with sorrowful decision.

"If I was a boy, we'd run away together, and have a capital time; but as
I'm a miserable girl, I must be proper, and stop at home. Don't tempt
me, Teddy, it's a crazy plan."

"That's the fun of it," began Laurie, who had got a wilful fit on him,
and was possessed to break out of bounds in some way.

"Hold your tongue!" cried Jo, covering her ears. "'Prunes and prisms'
are my doom, and I may as well make up my mind to it. I came here to
moralize, not to hear about things that make me skip to think of."

    [Illustration: "Hold your tongue!" cried Jo, covering her ears]

"I know Meg would wet-blanket such a proposal, but I thought you had
more spirit," began Laurie insinuatingly.

"Bad boy, be quiet! Sit down and think of your own sins, don't go making
me add to mine. If I get your grandpa to apologize for the shaking, will
you give up running away?" asked Jo seriously.

"Yes, but you won't do it," answered Laurie, who wished "to make up,"
but felt that his outraged dignity must be appeased first.

"If I can manage the young one I can the old one," muttered Jo, as she
walked away, leaving Laurie bent over a railroad map, with his head
propped up on both hands.

"Come in!" and Mr. Laurence's gruff voice sounded gruffer than ever, as
Jo tapped at his door.

"It's only me, sir, come to return a book," she said blandly, as she
entered.

"Want any more?" asked the old gentleman, looking grim and vexed, but
trying not to show it.

"Yes, please. I like old Sam so well, I think I'll try the second
volume," returned Jo, hoping to propitiate him by accepting a second
dose of Boswell's "Johnson," as he had recommended that lively work.

The shaggy eyebrows unbent a little, as he rolled the steps toward the
shelf where the Johnsonian literature was placed. Jo skipped up, and,
sitting on the top step, affected to be searching for her book, but was
really wondering how best to introduce the dangerous object of her
visit. Mr. Laurence seemed to suspect that something was brewing in her
mind; for, after taking several brisk turns about the room, he faced
round on her, speaking so abruptly that "Rasselas" tumbled face downward
on the floor.

"What has that boy been about? Don't try to shield him. I know he has
been in mischief by the way he acted when he came home. I can't get a
word from him; and when I threatened to shake the truth out of him he
bolted upstairs, and locked himself into his room."

"He did do wrong, but we forgave him, and all promised not to say a word
to any one," began Jo reluctantly.

"That won't do; he shall not shelter himself behind a promise from you
soft-hearted girls. If he's done anything amiss, he shall confess, beg
pardon, and be punished. Out with it, Jo, I won't be kept in the dark."

Mr. Laurence looked so alarming and spoke so sharply that Jo would have
gladly run away, if she could, but she was perched aloft on the steps,
and he stood at the foot, a lion in the path, so she had to stay and
brave it out.

     [Illustration: He stood at the foot, like a lion in the path]

"Indeed, sir, I cannot tell; mother forbade it. Laurie has confessed,
asked pardon, and been punished quite enough. We don't keep silence to
shield him, but some one else, and it will make more trouble if you
interfere. Please don't; it was partly my fault, but it's all right now;
so let's forget it, and talk about the 'Rambler,' or something
pleasant."

"Hang the 'Rambler!' come down and give me your word that this
harum-scarum boy of mine hasn't done anything ungrateful or impertinent.
If he has, after all your kindness to him, I'll thrash him with my own
hands."

The threat sounded awful, but did not alarm Jo, for she knew the
irascible old gentleman would never lift a finger against his grandson,
whatever he might say to the contrary. She obediently descended, and
made as light of the prank as she could without betraying Meg or
forgetting the truth.

"Hum--ha--well, if the boy held his tongue because he promised, and not
from obstinacy, I'll forgive him. He's a stubborn fellow, and hard to
manage," said Mr. Laurence, rubbing up his hair till it looked as if he
had been out in a gale, and smoothing the frown from his brow with an
air of relief.

"So am I; but a kind word will govern me when all the king's horses and
all the king's men couldn't," said Jo, trying to say a kind word for her
friend, who seemed to get out of one scrape only to fall into another.

"You think I'm not kind to him, hey?" was the sharp answer.

"Oh, dear, no, sir; you are rather too kind sometimes, and then just a
trifle hasty when he tries your patience. Don't you think you are?"

Jo was determined to have it out now, and tried to look quite placid,
though she quaked a little after her bold speech. To her great relief
and surprise, the old gentleman only threw his spectacles on to the
table with a rattle, and exclaimed frankly,--

"You're right, girl, I am! I love the boy, but he tries my patience past
bearing, and I don't know how it will end, if we go on so."

"I'll tell you, he'll run away." Jo was sorry for that speech the
minute it was made; she meant to warn him that Laurie would not bear
much restraint, and hoped he would be more forbearing with the lad.

Mr. Laurence's ruddy face changed suddenly, and he sat down, with a
troubled glance at the picture of a handsome man, which hung over his
table. It was Laurie's father, who _had_ run away in his youth, and
married against the imperious old man's will. Jo fancied he remembered
and regretted the past, and she wished she had held her tongue.

"He won't do it unless he is very much worried, and only threatens it
sometimes, when he gets tired of studying. I often think I should like
to, especially since my hair was cut; so, if you ever miss us, you may
advertise for two boys, and look among the ships bound for India."

She laughed as she spoke, and Mr. Laurence looked relieved, evidently
taking the whole as a joke.

"You hussy, how dare you talk in that way? Where's your respect for me,
and your proper bringing up? Bless the boys and girls! What torments
they are; yet we can't do without them," he said, pinching her cheeks
good-humoredly. "Go and bring that boy down to his dinner, tell him it's
all right, and advise him not to put on tragedy airs with his
grandfather. I won't bear it."

"He won't come, sir; he feels badly because you didn't believe him when
he said he couldn't tell. I think the shaking hurt his feelings very
much."

Jo tried to look pathetic, but must have failed, for Mr. Laurence began
to laugh, and she knew the day was won.

"I'm sorry for that, and ought to thank him for not shaking _me_, I
suppose. What the dickens does the fellow expect?" and the old gentleman
looked a trifle ashamed of his own testiness.

"If I were you, I'd write him an apology, sir. He says he won't come
down till he has one, and talks about Washington, and goes on in an
absurd way. A formal apology will make him see how foolish he is, and
bring him down quite amiable. Try it; he likes fun, and this way is
better than talking. I'll carry it up, and teach him his duty."

Mr. Laurence gave her a sharp look, and put on his spectacles, saying
slowly, "You're a sly puss, but I don't mind being managed by you and
Beth. Here, give me a bit of paper, and let us have done with this
nonsense."

The note was written in the terms which one gentleman would use to
another after offering some deep insult. Jo dropped a kiss on the top of
Mr. Laurence's bald head, and ran up to slip the apology under Laurie's
door, advising him, through the key-hole, to be submissive, decorous,
and a few other agreeable impossibilities. Finding the door locked
again, she left the note to do its work, and was going quietly away,
when the young gentleman slid down the banisters, and waited for her at
the bottom, saying, with his most virtuous expression of countenance,
"What a good fellow you are, Jo! Did you get blown up?" he added,
laughing.

"No; he was pretty mild, on the whole."

"Ah! I got it all round; even you cast me off over there, and I felt
just ready to go to the deuce," he began apologetically.

"Don't talk in that way; turn over a new leaf and begin again, Teddy, my
son."

"I keep turning over new leaves, and spoiling them, as I used to spoil
my copy-books; and I make so many beginnings there never will be an
end," he said dolefully.

"Go and eat your dinner; you'll feel better after it. Men always croak
when they are hungry," and Jo whisked out at the front door after that.

"That's a 'label' on my 'sect,'" answered Laurie, quoting Amy, as he
went to partake of humble-pie dutifully with his grandfather, who was
quite saintly in temper and overwhelmingly respectful in manner all the
rest of the day.

Every one thought the matter ended and the little cloud blown over; but
the mischief was done, for, though others forgot it, Meg remembered. She
never alluded to a certain person, but she thought of him a good deal,
dreamed dreams more than ever; and once Jo, rummaging her sister's desk
for stamps, found a bit of paper scribbled over with the words, "Mrs.
John Brooke;" whereat she groaned tragically, and cast it into the fire,
feeling that Laurie's prank had hastened the evil day for her.

  [Illustration: Beth was soon able to lie on the study sofa all day]

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

completion: Laurie Makes Mischief, and Jo Makes Peace Jo tries dearly to keep her Mother's secret, to the frustration of Meg and Laurie. Laurie, devising that the secret concerns Meg and John Brooke, plots to find out what it is. Meg receives a letter she thinks is from John, professing his love for her. Meg secretly responds that she is too young, and he must speak to her parents. John's response is surprise at Meg, disclaiming any knowledge of the first letter professing his love, and accusing Jo of playing tricks on Meg. Jo clears her name and realizes that Laurie wrote both of the notes and signed John's name. Jo runs to get Laurie, while Mrs. March tells Meg how Mr. Brooke truly feels. Meg is disenchanted with lovers at the moment, and wants only to be friends. Mrs. March and Laurie have a private conversation, after which he apologizes sincerely to Meg and promises never to tell Mr. Brooke of the matter. Laurie looks so penitent that Jo forgives him, but does not show it, and later goes over to his house to make amends. She finds that Mr. Laurence and Laurie have fought, for Laurie refused to divulge his conversation with Mrs. March, so Mr. Laurence shook him. This infuriated Laurie, who felt that his grandfather should trust his word and not shake him like a child. Laurie refuses to go down to dinner until his grandfather apologizes, and speaks of running away with Jo to Washington to make him sorry. Jo is tempted, but realizes she has duties at home, and as a girl does not have the freedoms that Laurie does. Jo goes to find Mr. Laurence convinces him to apologize to Laurie. She mentions that if Mr. Laurence is not careful, Laurie might impulsively run away. Jo regrets this comment immediately, seeing Mr. Laurence look at a picture of Laurie's father, who did run away. She then makes a joke of it, and makes peace again. Nevertheless, Meg now knows of John's feelings, thus mischief was made


prompt:
Chapter: XXII. PLEASANT MEADOWS.

Like sunshine after storm were the peaceful weeks which followed. The
invalids improved rapidly, and Mr. March began to talk of returning
early in the new year. Beth was soon able to lie on the study sofa all
day, amusing herself with the well-beloved cats, at first, and, in time,
with doll's sewing, which had fallen sadly behindhand. Her once active
limbs were so stiff and feeble that Jo took her a daily airing about the
house in her strong arms. Meg cheerfully blackened and burnt her white
hands cooking delicate messes for "the dear;" while Amy, a loyal slave
of the ring, celebrated her return by giving away as many of her
treasures as she could prevail on her sisters to accept.

As Christmas approached, the usual mysteries began to haunt the house,
and Jo frequently convulsed the family by proposing utterly impossible
or magnificently absurd ceremonies, in honor of this unusually merry
Christmas. Laurie was equally impracticable, and would have had
bonfires, sky-rockets, and triumphal arches, if he had had his own way.
After many skirmishes and snubbings, the ambitious pair were considered
effectually quenched, and went about with forlorn faces, which were
rather belied by explosions of laughter when the two got together.

Several days of unusually mild weather fitly ushered in a splendid
Christmas Day. Hannah "felt in her bones" that it was going to be an
unusually fine day, and she proved herself a true prophetess, for
everybody and everything seemed bound to produce a grand success. To
begin with, Mr. March wrote that he should soon be with them; then Beth
felt uncommonly well that morning, and, being dressed in her mother's
gift,--a soft crimson merino wrapper,--was borne in triumph to the
window to behold the offering of Jo and Laurie. The Unquenchables had
done their best to be worthy of the name, for, like elves, they had
worked by night, and conjured up a comical surprise. Out in the garden
stood a stately snow-maiden, crowned with holly, bearing a basket of
fruit and flowers in one hand, a great roll of new music in the other, a
perfect rainbow of an Afghan round her chilly shoulders, and a Christmas
carol issuing from her lips, on a pink paper streamer:--

                         "THE JUNGFRAU TO BETH.

        "God bless you, dear Queen Bess!
          May nothing you dismay,
         But health and peace and happiness
          Be yours, this Christmas Day.

        "Here's fruit to feed our busy bee,
          And flowers for her nose;
         Here's music for her pianee,
          An Afghan for her toes.

        "A portrait of Joanna, see,
          By Raphael No. 2,
         Who labored with great industry
          To make it fair and true.

        "Accept a ribbon red, I beg,
          For Madam Purrer's tail;
         And ice-cream made by lovely Peg,--
          A Mont Blanc in a pail.

        "Their dearest love my makers laid
          Within my breast of snow:
         Accept it, and the Alpine maid,
          From Laurie and from Jo."

                      [Illustration: The Jungfrau]

How Beth laughed when she saw it, how Laurie ran up and down to bring in
the gifts, and what ridiculous speeches Jo made as she presented them!

"I'm so full of happiness, that, if father was only here, I couldn't
hold one drop more," said Beth, quite sighing with contentment as Jo
carried her off to the study to rest after the excitement, and to
refresh herself with some of the delicious grapes the "Jungfrau" had
sent her.

"So am I," added Jo, slapping the pocket wherein reposed the
long-desired Undine and Sintram.

"I'm sure I am," echoed Amy, poring over the engraved copy of the
Madonna and Child, which her mother had given her, in a pretty frame.

"Of course I am!" cried Meg, smoothing the silvery folds of her first
silk dress; for Mr. Laurence had insisted on giving it.

"How can _I_ be otherwise?" said Mrs. March gratefully, as her eyes went
from her husband's letter to Beth's smiling face, and her hand caressed
the brooch made of gray and golden, chestnut and dark brown hair, which
the girls had just fastened on her breast.

Now and then, in this work-a-day world, things do happen in the
delightful story-book fashion, and what a comfort that is. Half an hour
after every one had said they were so happy they could only hold one
drop more, the drop came. Laurie opened the parlor door, and popped his
head in very quietly. He might just as well have turned a somersault and
uttered an Indian war-whoop; for his face was so full of suppressed
excitement and his voice so treacherously joyful, that every one jumped
up, though he only said, in a queer, breathless voice, "Here's another
Christmas present for the March family."

Before the words were well out of his mouth, he was whisked away
somehow, and in his place appeared a tall man, muffled up to the eyes,
leaning on the arm of another tall man, who tried to say something and
couldn't. Of course there was a general stampede; and for several
minutes everybody seemed to lose their wits, for the strangest things
were done, and no one said a word. Mr. March became invisible in the
embrace of four pairs of loving arms; Jo disgraced herself by nearly
fainting away, and had to be doctored by Laurie in the china-closet; Mr.
Brooke kissed Meg entirely by mistake, as he somewhat incoherently
explained; and Amy, the dignified, tumbled over a stool, and, never
stopping to get up, hugged and cried over her father's boots in the most
touching manner. Mrs. March was the first to recover herself, and held
up her hand with a warning, "Hush! remember Beth!"

But it was too late; the study door flew open, the little red wrapper
appeared on the threshold,--joy put strength into the feeble limbs,--and
Beth ran straight into her father's arms. Never mind what happened just
after that; for the full hearts overflowed, washing away the bitterness
of the past, and leaving only the sweetness of the present.

It was not at all romantic, but a hearty laugh set everybody straight
again, for Hannah was discovered behind the door, sobbing over the fat
turkey, which she had forgotten to put down when she rushed up from the
kitchen. As the laugh subsided, Mrs. March began to thank Mr. Brooke for
his faithful care of her husband, at which Mr. Brooke suddenly
remembered that Mr. March needed rest, and, seizing Laurie, he
precipitately retired. Then the two invalids were ordered to repose,
which they did, by both sitting in one big chair, and talking hard.

Mr. March told how he had longed to surprise them, and how, when the
fine weather came, he had been allowed by his doctor to take advantage
of it; how devoted Brooke had been, and how he was altogether a most
estimable and upright young man. Why Mr. March paused a minute just
there, and, after a glance at Meg, who was violently poking the fire,
looked at his wife with an inquiring lift of the eyebrows, I leave you
to imagine; also why Mrs. March gently nodded her head, and asked,
rather abruptly, if he wouldn't have something to eat. Jo saw and
understood the look; and she stalked grimly away to get wine and
beef-tea, muttering to herself, as she slammed the door, "I hate
estimable young men with brown eyes!"

There never _was_ such a Christmas dinner as they had that day. The fat
turkey was a sight to behold, when Hannah sent him up, stuffed, browned,
and decorated; so was the plum-pudding, which quite melted in one's
mouth; likewise the jellies, in which Amy revelled like a fly in a
honey-pot. Everything turned out well, which was a mercy, Hannah said,
"For my mind was that flustered, mum, that it's a merrycle I didn't
roast the pudding, and stuff the turkey with raisins, let alone bilin'
of it in a cloth."

Mr. Laurence and his grandson dined with them, also Mr. Brooke,--at whom
Jo glowered darkly, to Laurie's infinite amusement. Two easy-chairs
stood side by side at the head of the table, in which sat Beth and her
father, feasting modestly on chicken and a little fruit. They drank
healths, told stories, sung songs, "reminisced," as the old folks say,
and had a thoroughly good time. A sleigh-ride had been planned, but the
girls would not leave their father; so the guests departed early, and,
as twilight gathered, the happy family sat together round the fire.

"Just a year ago we were groaning over the dismal Christmas we expected
to have. Do you remember?" asked Jo, breaking a short pause which had
followed a long conversation about many things.

"Rather a pleasant year on the whole!" said Meg, smiling at the fire,
and congratulating herself on having treated Mr. Brooke with dignity.

"I think it's been a pretty hard one," observed Amy, watching the light
shine on her ring, with thoughtful eyes.

"I'm glad it's over, because we've got you back," whispered Beth, who
sat on her father's knee.

"Rather a rough road for you to travel, my little pilgrims, especially
the latter part of it. But you have got on bravely; and I think the
burdens are in a fair way to tumble off very soon," said Mr. March,
looking with fatherly satisfaction at the four young faces gathered
round him.

"How do you know? Did mother tell you?" asked Jo.

"Not much; straws show which way the wind blows, and I've made several
discoveries to-day."

"Oh, tell us what they are!" cried Meg, who sat beside him.

"Here is one;" and taking up the hand which lay on the arm of his chair,
he pointed to the roughened forefinger, a burn on the back, and two or
three little hard spots on the palm. "I remember a time when this hand
was white and smooth, and your first care was to keep it so. It was very
pretty then, but to me it is much prettier now,--for in these seeming
blemishes I read a little history. A burnt-offering has been made of
vanity; this hardened palm has earned something better than blisters;
and I'm sure the sewing done by these pricked fingers will last a long
time, so much good-will went into the stitches. Meg, my dear, I value
the womanly skill which keeps home happy more than white hands or
fashionable accomplishments. I'm proud to shake this good, industrious
little hand, and hope I shall not soon be asked to give it away."

If Meg had wanted a reward for hours of patient labor, she received it
in the hearty pressure of her father's hand and the approving smile he
gave her.

"What about Jo? Please say something nice; for she has tried so hard,
and been so very, very good to me," said Beth, in her father's ear.

He laughed, and looked across at the tall girl who sat opposite, with an
unusually mild expression in her brown face.

"In spite of the curly crop, I don't see the 'son Jo' whom I left a year
ago," said Mr. March. "I see a young lady who pins her collar straight,
laces her boots neatly, and neither whistles, talks slang, nor lies on
the rug as she used to do. Her face is rather thin and pale, just now,
with watching and anxiety; but I like to look at it, for it has grown
gentler, and her voice is lower; she doesn't bounce, but moves quietly,
and takes care of a certain little person in a motherly way which
delights me. I rather miss my wild girl; but if I get a strong, helpful,
tender-hearted woman in her place, I shall feel quite satisfied. I don't
know whether the shearing sobered our black sheep, but I do know that in
all Washington I couldn't find anything beautiful enough to be bought
with the five-and-twenty dollars which my good girl sent me."

Jo's keen eyes were rather dim for a minute, and her thin face grew rosy
in the firelight, as she received her father's praise, feeling that she
did deserve a portion of it.

"Now Beth," said Amy, longing for her turn, but ready to wait.

"There's so little of her, I'm afraid to say much, for fear she will
slip away altogether, though she is not so shy as she used to be," began
their father cheerfully; but recollecting how nearly he _had_ lost her,
he held her close, saying tenderly, with her cheek against his own,
"I've got you safe, my Beth, and I'll keep you so, please God."

After a minute's silence, he looked down at Amy, who sat on the cricket
at his feet, and said, with a caress of the shining hair,--

"I observed that Amy took drumsticks at dinner, ran errands for her
mother all the afternoon, gave Meg her place to-night, and has waited
on every one with patience and good-humor. I also observe that she does
not fret much nor look in the glass, and has not even mentioned a very
pretty ring which she wears; so I conclude that she has learned to think
of other people more and of herself less, and has decided to try and
mould her character as carefully as she moulds her little clay figures.
I am glad of this; for though I should be very proud of a graceful
statue made by her, I shall be infinitely prouder of a lovable daughter,
with a talent for making life beautiful to herself and others."

"What are you thinking of, Beth?" asked Jo, when Amy had thanked her
father and told about her ring.

"I read in 'Pilgrim's Progress' to-day, how, after many troubles,
Christian and Hopeful came to a pleasant green meadow, where lilies
bloomed all the year round, and there they rested happily, as we do now,
before they went on to their journey's end," answered Beth; adding, as
she slipped out of her father's arms, and went slowly to the instrument,
"It's singing time now, and I want to be in my old place. I'll try to
sing the song of the shepherd-boy which the Pilgrims heard. I made the
music for father, because he likes the verses."

So, sitting at the dear little piano, Beth softly touched the keys, and,
in the sweet voice they had never thought to hear again, sung to her own
accompaniment the quaint hymn, which was a singularly fitting song for
her:--

        "He that is down need fear no fall,
          He that is low no pride;
         He that is humble ever shall
          Have God to be his guide.

        "I am content with what I have,
          Little be it or much;
         And, Lord! contentment still I crave,
          Because Thou savest such.

        "Fulness to them a burden is,
          That go on pilgrimage;
         Here little, and hereafter bliss,
          Is best from age to age!"

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

completion: Pleasant Meadows As Christmas approaches, both Beth and Mr. March are recovering nicely, and Mr. March talks of coming home soon. All of the girls have been influenced for the better by Beth's illness, with Meg working cheerfully, Amy giving away her possessions, and Jo tenderly caring for her sister. On Christmas morning, Beth declares that she is so happy and that her life is complete except for Father's absence. The other sisters are also happy with their Christmas presents - Undine and Sintram for Jo; a copy of Madonna and Child for Amy; and a silk dress from Mr. Laurence for Meg. Just at that moment, Laurie announces another Christmas present for the March family, and in walks Father. Even Beth finds the strength to run to Father and embrace him, her Christmas wish fulfilled. In the excitement, Mr. Brooke kisses Meg by mistake, and Mr. March mentions later how kind and supportive Mr. Brooke has been, to Jo's great annoyance. After dinner with the Laurences and Mr. Brooke, the March family, reunited, rests and celebrates together. They reflect on the year, a pleasant but difficult one, and Father remarks that the Pilgrims have come a long way, and their bundles will soon tumble off. Father observes that Meg's hands, once pretty and smooth, are now burned and hardened but beautifully so, for Meg has replaced vanity with dedication to loving and industrious housekeeping. Jo has indeed become a little woman, still strong-willed, but not wild, and caring for Beth with maternal tenderness. Beth has overcome much of her bashfulness, and all are grateful to have her safe. Amy is patient, less vain, and as dedicated to shaping her character as her clay figurines. The evening ends with Beth recalling part of Pilgrim's Progress where everyone comes to a beautiful meadow to rest. She sings an excerpt from the book, giving thanks for contentment and bliss


prompt:
Chapter: XXIII. AUNT MARCH SETTLES THE QUESTION.

            [Illustration: Popping in her head now and then]

Like bees swarming after their queen, mother and daughters hovered about
Mr. March the next day, neglecting everything to look at, wait upon, and
listen to the new invalid, who was in a fair way to be killed by
kindness. As he sat propped up in a big chair by Beth's sofa, with the
other three close by, and Hannah popping in her head now and then, "to
peek at the dear man," nothing seemed needed to complete their
happiness. But something _was_ needed, and the elder ones felt it,
though none confessed the fact. Mr. and Mrs. March looked at one another
with an anxious expression, as their eyes followed Meg. Jo had sudden
fits of sobriety, and was seen to shake her fist at Mr. Brooke's
umbrella, which had been left in the hall; Meg was absent-minded, shy,
and silent, started when the bell rang, and colored when John's name was
mentioned; Amy said "Every one seemed waiting for something, and
couldn't settle down, which was queer, since father was safe at home,"
and Beth innocently wondered why their neighbors didn't run over as
usual.

 [Illustration: "He sat in the big chair by Beth's sofa with the other
                      three close by."--Page 277.]

Laurie went by in the afternoon, and, seeing Meg at the window, seemed
suddenly possessed with a melodramatic fit, for he fell down upon one
knee in the snow, beat his breast, tore his hair, and clasped his hands
imploringly, as if begging some boon; and when Meg told him to behave
himself and go away, he wrung imaginary tears out of his handkerchief,
and staggered round the corner as if in utter despair.

"What does the goose mean?" said Meg, laughing, and trying to look
unconscious.

"He's showing you how your John will go on by and by. Touching, isn't
it?" answered Jo scornfully.

"Don't say _my John_, it isn't proper or true;" but Meg's voice lingered
over the words as if they sounded pleasant to her. "Please don't plague
me, Jo; I've told you I don't care _much_ about him, and there isn't to
be anything said, but we are all to be friendly, and go on as before."

"We can't, for something _has_ been said, and Laurie's mischief has
spoilt you for me. I see it, and so does mother; you are not like your
old self a bit, and seem ever so far away from me. I don't mean to
plague you, and will bear it like a man, but I do wish it was all
settled. I hate to wait; so if you mean ever to do it, make haste and
have it over quickly," said Jo pettishly.

"_I_ can't say or do anything till he speaks, and he won't, because
father said I was too young," began Meg, bending over her work, with a
queer little smile, which suggested that she did not quite agree with
her father on that point.

"If he did speak, you wouldn't know what to say, but would cry or blush,
or let him have his own way, instead of giving a good, decided, No."

"I'm not so silly and weak as you think. I know just what I should say,
for I've planned it all, so I needn't be taken unawares; there's no
knowing what may happen, and I wished to be prepared."

Jo couldn't help smiling at the important air which Meg had
unconsciously assumed, and which was as becoming as the pretty color
varying in her cheeks.

"Would you mind telling me what you'd say?" asked Jo more respectfully.

"Not at all; you are sixteen now, quite old enough to be my confidant,
and my experience will be useful to you by and by, perhaps, in your own
affairs of this sort."

"Don't mean to have any; it's fun to watch other people philander, but I
should feel like a fool doing it myself," said Jo, looking alarmed at
the thought.

"I think not, if you liked any one very much, and he liked you." Meg
spoke as if to herself, and glanced out at the lane, where she had often
seen lovers walking together in the summer twilight.

"I thought you were going to tell your speech to that man," said Jo,
rudely shortening her sister's little reverie.

"Oh, I should merely say, quite calmly and decidedly, 'Thank you, Mr.
Brooke, you are very kind, but I agree with father that I am too young
to enter into any engagement at present; so please say no more, but let
us be friends as we were.'"

"Hum! that's stiff and cool enough. I don't believe you'll ever say it,
and I know he won't be satisfied if you do. If he goes on like the
rejected lovers in books, you'll give in, rather than hurt his
feelings."

"No, I won't. I shall tell him I've made up my mind, and shall walk out
of the room with dignity."

Meg rose as she spoke, and was just going to rehearse the dignified
exit, when a step in the hall made her fly into her seat, and begin to
sew as if her life depended on finishing that particular seam in a given
time. Jo smothered a laugh at the sudden change, and, when some one gave
a modest tap, opened the door with a grim aspect, which was anything but
hospitable.

"Good afternoon. I came to get my umbrella,--that is, to see how your
father finds himself to-day," said Mr. Brooke, getting a trifle confused
as his eye went from one tell-tale face to the other.

"It's very well, he's in the rack, I'll get him, and tell it you are
here," and having jumbled her father and the umbrella well together in
her reply, Jo slipped out of the room to give Meg a chance to make her
speech and air her dignity. But the instant she vanished, Meg began to
sidle towards the door, murmuring,--

"Mother will like to see you. Pray sit down, I'll call her."

"Don't go; are you afraid of me, Margaret?" and Mr. Brooke looked so
hurt that Meg thought she must have done something very rude. She
blushed up to the little curls on her forehead, for he had never called
her Margaret before, and she was surprised to find how natural and sweet
it seemed to hear him say it. Anxious to appear friendly and at her
ease, she put out her hand with a confiding gesture, and said
gratefully,--

"How can I be afraid when you have been so kind to father? I only wish I
could thank you for it."

                 [Illustration: Shall I tell you how?]

"Shall I tell you how?" asked Mr. Brooke, holding the small hand fast in
both his own, and looking down at Meg with so much love in the brown
eyes, that her heart began to flutter, and she both longed to run away
and to stop and listen.

"Oh no, please don't--I'd rather not," she said, trying to withdraw her
hand, and looking frightened in spite of her denial.

"I won't trouble you, I only want to know if you care for me a little,
Meg. I love you so much, dear," added Mr. Brooke tenderly.

This was the moment for the calm, proper speech, but Meg didn't make it;
she forgot every word of it, hung her head, and answered, "I don't
know," so softly, that John had to stoop down to catch the foolish
little reply.

He seemed to think it was worth the trouble, for he smiled to himself as
if quite satisfied, pressed the plump hand gratefully, and said, in his
most persuasive tone, "Will you try and find out? I want to know _so_
much; for I can't go to work with any heart until I learn whether I am
to have my reward in the end or not."

"I'm too young," faltered Meg, wondering why she was so fluttered, yet
rather enjoying it.

"I'll wait; and in the meantime, you could be learning to like me. Would
it be a very hard lesson, dear?"

"Not if I chose to learn it, but--"

"Please choose to learn, Meg. I love to teach, and this is easier than
German," broke in John, getting possession of the other hand, so that
she had no way of hiding her face, as he bent to look into it.

His tone was properly beseeching; but, stealing a shy look at him, Meg
saw that his eyes were merry as well as tender, and that he wore the
satisfied smile of one who had no doubt of his success. This nettled
her; Annie Moffat's foolish lessons in coquetry came into her mind, and
the love of power, which sleeps in the bosoms of the best of little
women, woke up all of a sudden and took possession of her. She felt
excited and strange, and, not knowing what else to do, followed a
capricious impulse, and, withdrawing her hands, said petulantly, "I
_don't_ choose. Please go away and let me be!"

Poor Mr. Brooke looked as if his lovely castle in the air was tumbling
about his ears, for he had never seen Meg in such a mood before, and it
rather bewildered him.

"Do you really mean that?" he asked anxiously, following her as she
walked away.

"Yes, I do; I don't want to be worried about such things. Father says I
needn't; it's too soon and I'd rather not."

"Mayn't I hope you'll change your mind by and by? I'll wait, and say
nothing till you have had more time. Don't play with me, Meg. I didn't
think that of you."

"Don't think of me at all. I'd rather you wouldn't," said Meg, taking a
naughty satisfaction in trying her lover's patience and her own power.

He was grave and pale now, and looked decidedly more like the novel
heroes whom she admired; but he neither slapped his forehead nor tramped
about the room, as they did; he just stood looking at her so wistfully,
so tenderly, that she found her heart relenting in spite of her. What
would have happened next I cannot say, if Aunt March had not come
hobbling in at this interesting minute.

The old lady couldn't resist her longing to see her nephew; for she had
met Laurie as she took her airing, and, hearing of Mr. March's arrival,
drove straight out to see him. The family were all busy in the back part
of the house, and she had made her way quietly in, hoping to surprise
them. She did surprise two of them so much that Meg started as if she
had seen a ghost, and Mr. Brooke vanished into the study.

"Bless me, what's all this?" cried the old lady, with a rap of her cane,
as she glanced from the pale young gentleman to the scarlet young lady.

               [Illustration: Bless me, what's all this?]

"It's father's friend. I'm _so_ surprised to see you!" stammered Meg,
feeling that she was in for a lecture now.

"That's evident," returned Aunt March, sitting down. "But what is
father's friend saying to make you look like a peony? There's mischief
going on, and I insist upon knowing what it is," with another rap.

"We were merely talking. Mr. Brooke came for his umbrella," began Meg,
wishing that Mr. Brooke and the umbrella were safely out of the house.

"Brooke? That boy's tutor? Ah! I understand now. I know all about it. Jo
blundered into a wrong message in one of your father's letters, and I
made her tell me. You haven't gone and accepted him, child?" cried Aunt
March, looking scandalized.

"Hush! he'll hear. Sha'n't I call mother?" said Meg, much troubled.

"Not yet. I've something to say to you, and I must free my mind at once.
Tell me, do you mean to marry this Cook? If you do, not one penny of my
money ever goes to you. Remember that, and be a sensible girl," said the
old lady impressively.

Now Aunt March possessed in perfection the art of rousing the spirit of
opposition in the gentlest people, and enjoyed doing it. The best of us
have a spice of perversity in us, especially when we are young and in
love. If Aunt March had begged Meg to accept John Brooke, she would
probably have declared she couldn't think of it; but as she was
peremptorily ordered _not_ to like him, she immediately made up her mind
that she would. Inclination as well as perversity made the decision
easy, and, being already much excited, Meg opposed the old lady with
unusual spirit.

"I shall marry whom I please, Aunt March, and you can leave your money
to any one you like," she said, nodding her head with a resolute air.

"Highty tighty! Is that the way you take my advice, miss? You'll be
sorry for it, by and by, when you've tried love in a cottage, and found
it a failure."

"It can't be a worse one than some people find in big houses," retorted
Meg.

Aunt March put on her glasses and took a look at the girl, for she did
not know her in this new mood. Meg hardly knew herself, she felt so
brave and independent,--so glad to defend John, and assert her right to
love him, if she liked. Aunt March saw that she had begun wrong, and,
after a little pause, made a fresh start, saying, as mildly as she
could, "Now, Meg, my dear, be reasonable, and take my advice. I mean it
kindly, and don't want you to spoil your whole life by making a mistake
at the beginning. You ought to marry well, and help your family; it's
your duty to make a rich match, and it ought to be impressed upon you."

"Father and mother don't think so; they like John, though he _is_ poor."

"Your parents, my dear, have no more worldly wisdom than two babies."

"I'm glad of it," cried Meg stoutly.

Aunt March took no notice, but went on with her lecture. "This Rook is
poor, and hasn't got any rich relations, has he?"

"No; but he has many warm friends."

"You can't live on friends; try it, and see how cool they'll grow. He
hasn't any business, has he?"

"Not yet; Mr. Laurence is going to help him."

"That won't last long. James Laurence is a crotchety old fellow, and not
to be depended on. So you intend to marry a man without money, position,
or business, and go on working harder than you do now, when you might be
comfortable all your days by minding me and doing better? I thought you
had more sense, Meg."

"I couldn't do better if I waited half my life! John is good and wise;
he's got heaps of talent; he's willing to work, and sure to get on, he's
so energetic and brave. Every one likes and respects him, and I'm proud
to think he cares for me, though I'm so poor and young and silly," said
Meg, looking prettier than ever in her earnestness.

"He knows _you_ have got rich relations, child; that's the secret of his
liking, I suspect."

"Aunt March, how dare you say such a thing? John is above such meanness,
and I won't listen to you a minute if you talk so," cried Meg
indignantly, forgetting everything but the injustice of the old lady's
suspicions. "My John wouldn't marry for money, anymore than I would. We
are willing to work, and we mean to wait. I'm not afraid of being poor,
for I've been happy so far, and I know I shall be with him, because he
loves me, and I--"

Meg stopped there, remembering all of a sudden that she hadn't made up
her mind; that she had told "her John" to go away, and that he might be
overhearing her inconsistent remarks.

Aunt March was very angry, for she had set her heart on having her
pretty niece make a fine match, and something in the girl's happy young
face made the lonely old woman feel both sad and sour.

"Well, I wash my hands of the whole affair! You are a wilful child, and
you've lost more than you know by this piece of folly. No, I won't stop;
I'm disappointed in you, and haven't spirits to see your father now.
Don't expect anything from me when you are married; your Mr. Book's
friends must take care of you. I'm done with you forever."

And, slamming the door in Meg's face, Aunt March drove off in high
dudgeon. She seemed to take all the girl's courage with her; for, when
left alone, Meg stood a moment, undecided whether to laugh or cry.
Before she could make up her mind, she was taken possession of by Mr.
Brooke, who said, all in one breath, "I couldn't help hearing, Meg.
Thank you for defending me, and Aunt March for proving that you _do_
care for me a little bit."

"I didn't know how much, till she abused you," began Meg.

"And I needn't go away, but may stay and be happy, may I, dear?"

Here was another fine chance to make the crushing speech and the stately
exit, but Meg never thought of doing either, and disgraced herself
forever in Jo's eyes by meekly whispering, "Yes, John," and hiding her
face on Mr. Brooke's waistcoat.

Fifteen minutes after Aunt March's departure, Jo came softly down
stairs, paused an instant at the parlor door, and, hearing no sound
within, nodded and smiled, with a satisfied expression, saying to
herself, "She has sent him away as we planned, and that affair is
settled. I'll go and hear the fun, and have a good laugh over it."

But poor Jo never got her laugh, for she was transfixed upon the
threshold by a spectacle which held her there, staring with her mouth
nearly as wide open as her eyes. Going in to exult over a fallen enemy,
and to praise a strong-minded sister for the banishment of an
objectionable lover, it certainly _was_ a shock to behold the aforesaid
enemy serenely sitting on the sofa, with the strong-minded sister
enthroned upon his knee, and wearing an expression of the most abject
submission. Jo gave a sort of gasp, as if a cold shower-bath had
suddenly fallen upon her,--for such an unexpected turning of the tables
actually took her breath away. At the odd sound, the lovers turned and
saw her. Meg jumped up, looking both proud and shy; but "that man," as
Jo called him, actually laughed, and said coolly, as he kissed the
astonished new-comer, "Sister Jo, congratulate us!"

That was adding insult to injury,--it was altogether too much,--and,
making some wild demonstration with her hands, Jo vanished without a
word. Rushing upstairs, she startled the invalids by exclaiming
tragically, as she burst into the room, "Oh, _do_ somebody go down
quick; John Brooke is acting dreadfully, and Meg likes it!"

Mr. and Mrs. March left the room with speed; and, casting herself upon
the bed, Jo cried and scolded tempestuously as she told the awful news
to Beth and Amy. The little girls, however, considered it a most
agreeable and interesting event, and Jo got little comfort from them; so
she went up to her refuge in the garret, and confided her troubles to
the rats.

Nobody ever knew what went on in the parlor that afternoon; but a great
deal of talking was done, and quiet Mr. Brooke astonished his friends by
the eloquence and spirit with which he pleaded his suit, told his plans,
and persuaded them to arrange everything just as he wanted it.

The tea-bell rang before he had finished describing the paradise which
he meant to earn for Meg, and he proudly took her in to supper, both
looking so happy that Jo hadn't the heart to be jealous or dismal. Amy
was very much impressed by John's devotion and Meg's dignity. Beth
beamed at them from a distance, while Mr. and Mrs. March surveyed the
young couple with such tender satisfaction that it was perfectly evident
Aunt March was right in calling them as "unworldly as a pair of babies."
No one ate much, but every one looked very happy, and the old room
seemed to brighten up amazingly when the first romance of the family
began there.

"You can't say nothing pleasant ever happens now, can you, Meg?" said
Amy, trying to decide how she would group the lovers in the sketch she
was planning to take.

"No, I'm sure I can't. How much has happened since I said that! It seems
a year ago," answered Meg, who was in a blissful dream, lifted far above
such common things as bread and butter.

"The joys come close upon the sorrows this time, and I rather think the
changes have begun," said Mrs. March. "In most families there comes, now
and then, a year full of events; this has been such an one, but it ends
well, after all."

"Hope the next will end better," muttered Jo, who found it very hard to
see Meg absorbed in a stranger before her face; for Jo loved a few
persons very dearly, and dreaded to have their affection lost or
lessened in any way.

"I hope the third year from this _will_ end better; I mean it shall, if
I live to work out my plans," said Mr. Brooke, smiling at Meg, as if
everything had become possible to him now.

"Doesn't it seem very long to wait?" asked Amy, who was in a hurry for
the wedding.

"I've got so much to learn before I shall be ready, it seems a short
time to me," answered Meg, with a sweet gravity in her face, never seen
there before.

"You have only to wait; _I_ am to do the work," said John, beginning his
labors by picking up Meg's napkin, with an expression which caused Jo to
shake her head, and then say to herself, with an air of relief, as the
front door banged, "Here comes Laurie. Now we shall have a little
sensible conversation."

But Jo was mistaken; for Laurie came prancing in, overflowing with
spirits, bearing a great bridal-looking bouquet for "Mrs. John Brooke,"
and evidently laboring under the delusion that the whole affair had been
brought about by his excellent management.

                  [Illustration: For Mrs. John Brooke]

"I knew Brooke would have it all his own way, he always does; for when
he makes up his mind to accomplish anything, it's done, though the sky
falls," said Laurie, when he had presented his offering and his
congratulations.

"Much obliged for that recommendation. I take it as a good omen for the
future, and invite you to my wedding on the spot," answered Mr. Brooke,
who felt at peace with all mankind, even his mischievous pupil.

"I'll come if I'm at the ends of the earth; for the sight of Jo's face
alone, on that occasion, would be worth a long journey. You don't look
festive, ma'am; what's the matter?" asked Laurie, following her into a
corner of the parlor, whither all had adjourned to greet Mr. Laurence.

"I don't approve of the match, but I've made up my mind to bear it, and
shall not say a word against it," said Jo solemnly. "You can't know how
hard it is for me to give up Meg," she continued, with a little quiver
in her voice.

"You don't give her up. You only go halves," said Laurie consolingly.

"It never can be the same again. I've lost my dearest friend," sighed
Jo.

"You've got me, anyhow. I'm not good for much, I know; but I'll stand
by you, Jo, all the days of my life; upon my word I will!" and Laurie
meant what he said.

"I know you will, and I'm ever so much obliged; you are always a great
comfort to me, Teddy," returned Jo, gratefully shaking hands.

"Well, now, don't be dismal, there's a good fellow. It's all right, you
see. Meg is happy; Brooke will fly round and get settled immediately;
grandpa will attend to him, and it will be very jolly to see Meg in her
own little house. We'll have capital times after she is gone, for I
shall be through college before long, and then we'll go abroad, or some
nice trip or other. Wouldn't that console you?"

"I rather think it would; but there's no knowing what may happen in
three years," said Jo thoughtfully.

"That's true. Don't you wish you could take a look forward, and see
where we shall all be then? I do," returned Laurie.

"I think not, for I might see something sad; and every one looks so
happy now, I don't believe they could be much improved," and Jo's eyes
went slowly round the room, brightening as they looked, for the prospect
was a pleasant one.

Father and mother sat together, quietly re-living the first chapter of
the romance which for them began some twenty years ago. Amy was drawing
the lovers, who sat apart in a beautiful world of their own, the light
of which touched their faces with a grace the little artist could not
copy. Beth lay on her sofa, talking cheerily with her old friend, who
held her little hand as if he felt that it possessed the power to lead
him along the peaceful way she walked. Jo lounged in her favorite low
seat, with the grave, quiet look which best became her; and Laurie,
leaning on the back of her chair, his chin on a level with her curly
head, smiled with his friendliest aspect, and nodded at her in the long
glass which reflected them both.

                   *       *       *       *       *

So grouped, the curtain falls upon Meg, Jo, Beth, and Amy. Whether it
ever rises again, depends upon the reception given to the first act of
the domestic drama called "LITTLE WOMEN."

                [Illustration: Home of the Little Women]

                            The Second Part

                     [Illustration: The Dove Cote]

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

completion: Aunt March Settles the Question Despite the utter joy at having Father home, there is a lingering anxiety and uncertainty in the March house felt by the adults about Meg and John. Jo confronts Meg, who says that if John asks her, she will kindly ask to remain friends, as she is too young. Just at that moment, Mr. Brooke stops by to collect his umbrella and see Mr. March. Jo flees the room, leaving Meg to make her speech. Meg starts to leave as well, but John stops her, holding her hand, and asks if she cares about him at all, as he loves her so much. Meg, forgetting her speech, simply says she does not know. He asks her to try to learn, and Meg is quite flattered, but she sees a sense of satisfaction in his eyes, as if he expects her to say yes. Thinking of Annie Moffat, Meg suddenly starts acting coquettish as other girls do, saying she is not interested and being hurtful and distant. John is deeply hurt, and Meg feels guilty, but at that moment, Aunt March comes in. Mr. Brooke steps into the study as Aunt March quizzes the blushing Meg. Aunt March tells Meg that if she accepts the poor Mr. Brooke, Aunt March will not give them a single penny. Aunt March's statement raises Meg's spirit of opposition, and Meg declares that she will marry whom she likes. She then defends John, expounding on his courage, goodness, and their willingness to wait and work hard. Aunt March storms out, and John rushes in, having heard all of Meg's remarks. He asks again if she might care for him, and once more passing up the chance to make her sensible speech, Meg agrees. Jo returns and is shocked to find Meg sitting on John's knee, and even more so when John kisses her and calls her "Sister Jo. Jo runs to her parents and sends them downstairs, while she cries. Mr. Brooke eloquently argues his case, and convinces the Marches to allow the engagement, with hopes that in three years he will have a home, steady business, and can be married. Even Jo is moved by how happy Meg is, though she is devastated at losing her dear friend. She is comforted by Laurie and the sight of her family so happy