Chapter: In order that we may start afresh and go to Meg's wedding with free
minds, it will be well to begin with a little gossip about the Marches.
And here let me premise that if any of the elders think there is too
much 'lovering' in the story, as I fear they may (I'm not afraid the
young folks will make that objection), I can only say with Mrs. March,
"What can you expect when I have four gay girls in the house, and a
dashing young neighbor over the way?"

The three years that have passed have brought but few changes to the
quiet family.  The war is over, and Mr. March safely at home, busy with
his books and the small parish which found in him a minister by nature
as by grace, a quiet, studious man, rich in the wisdom that is better
than learning, the charity which calls all mankind 'brother', the piety
that blossoms into character, making it august and lovely.

These attributes, in spite of poverty and the strict integrity which
shut him out from the more worldly successes, attracted to him many
admirable persons, as naturally as sweet herbs draw bees, and as
naturally he gave them the honey into which fifty years of hard
experience had distilled no bitter drop.  Earnest young men found the
gray-headed scholar as young at heart as they; thoughtful or troubled
women instinctively brought their doubts to him, sure of finding the
gentlest sympathy, the wisest counsel.  Sinners told their sins to the
pure-hearted old man and were both rebuked and saved.  Gifted men found
a companion in him.  Ambitious men caught glimpses of nobler ambitions
than their own, and even worldlings confessed that his beliefs were
beautiful and true, although 'they wouldn't pay'.

To outsiders the five energetic women seemed to rule the house, and so
they did in many things, but the quiet scholar, sitting among his
books, was still the head of the family, the household conscience,
anchor, and comforter, for to him the busy, anxious women always turned
in troublous times, finding him, in the truest sense of those sacred
words, husband and father.

The girls gave their hearts into their mother's keeping, their souls
into their father's, and to both parents, who lived and labored so
faithfully for them, they gave a love that grew with their growth and
bound them tenderly together by the sweetest tie which blesses life and
outlives death.

Mrs. March is as brisk and cheery, though rather grayer, than when we
saw her last, and just now so absorbed in Meg's affairs that the
hospitals and homes still full of wounded 'boys' and soldiers' widows,
decidedly miss the motherly missionary's visits.

John Brooke did his duty manfully for a year, got wounded, was sent
home, and not allowed to return.  He received no stars or bars, but he
deserved them, for he cheerfully risked all he had, and life and love
are very precious when both are in full bloom.  Perfectly resigned to
his discharge, he devoted himself to getting well, preparing for
business, and earning a home for Meg.  With the good sense and sturdy
independence that characterized him, he refused Mr. Laurence's more
generous offers, and accepted the place of bookkeeper, feeling better
satisfied to begin with an honestly earned salary than by running any
risks with borrowed money.

Meg had spent the time in working as well as waiting, growing womanly
in character, wise in housewifely arts, and prettier than ever, for
love is a great beautifier.  She had her girlish ambitions and hopes,
and felt some disappointment at the humble way in which the new life
must begin.  Ned Moffat had just married Sallie Gardiner, and Meg
couldn't help contrasting their fine house and carriage, many gifts,
and splendid outfit with her own, and secretly wishing she could have
the same.  But somehow envy and discontent soon vanished when she
thought of all the patient love and labor John had put into the little
home awaiting her, and when they sat together in the twilight, talking
over their small plans, the future always grew so beautiful and bright
that she forgot Sallie's splendor and felt herself the richest,
happiest girl in Christendom.

Jo never went back to Aunt March, for the old lady took such a fancy to
Amy that she bribed her with the offer of drawing lessons from one of
the best teachers going, and for the sake of this advantage, Amy would
have served a far harder mistress.  So she gave her mornings to duty,
her afternoons to pleasure, and prospered finely. Jo meantime devoted
herself to literature and Beth, who remained delicate long after the
fever was a thing of the past.  Not an invalid exactly, but never again
the rosy, healthy creature she had been, yet always hopeful, happy, and
serene, and busy with the quiet duties she loved, everyone's friend,
and an angel in the house, long before those who loved her most had
learned to know it.

As long as _The Spread Eagle_ paid her a dollar a column for her
'rubbish', as she called it, Jo felt herself a woman of means, and spun
her little romances diligently.  But great plans fermented in her busy
brain and ambitious mind, and the old tin kitchen in the garret held a
slowly increasing pile of blotted manuscript, which was one day to
place the name of March upon the roll of fame.

Laurie, having dutifully gone to college to please his grandfather, was
now getting through it in the easiest possible manner to please
himself.  A universal favorite, thanks to money, manners, much talent,
and the kindest heart that ever got its owner into scrapes by trying to
get other people out of them, he stood in great danger of being
spoiled, and probably would have been, like many another promising boy,
if he had not possessed a talisman against evil in the memory of the
kind old man who was bound up in his success, the motherly friend who
watched over him as if he were her son, and last, but not least by any
means, the knowledge that four innocent girls loved, admired, and
believed in him with all their hearts.

Being only 'a glorious human boy', of course he frolicked and flirted,
grew dandified, aquatic, sentimental, or gymnastic, as college fashions
ordained, hazed and was hazed, talked slang, and more than once came
perilously near suspension and expulsion.  But as high spirits and the
love of fun were the causes of these pranks, he always managed to save
himself by frank confession, honorable atonement, or the irresistible
power of persuasion which he possessed in perfection.  In fact, he
rather prided himself on his narrow escapes, and liked to thrill the
girls with graphic accounts of his triumphs over wrathful tutors,
dignified professors, and vanquished enemies.  The 'men of my class',
were heroes in the eyes of the girls, who never wearied of the exploits
of 'our fellows', and were frequently allowed to bask in the smiles of
these great creatures, when Laurie brought them home with him.

Amy especially enjoyed this high honor, and became quite a belle among
them, for her ladyship early felt and learned to use the gift of
fascination with which she was endowed.  Meg was too much absorbed in
her private and particular John to care for any other lords of
creation, and Beth too shy to do more than peep at them and wonder how
Amy dared to order them about so, but Jo felt quite in her own element,
and found it very difficult to refrain from imitating the gentlemanly
attitudes, phrases, and feats, which seemed more natural to her than
the decorums prescribed for young ladies.  They all liked Jo immensely,
but never fell in love with her, though very few escaped without paying
the tribute of a sentimental sigh or two at Amy's shrine.  And speaking
of sentiment brings us very naturally to the 'Dovecote'.

That was the name of the little brown house Mr. Brooke had prepared for
Meg's first home.  Laurie had christened it, saying it was highly
appropriate to the gentle lovers who 'went on together like a pair of
turtledoves, with first a bill and then a coo'.  It was a tiny house,
with a little garden behind and a lawn about as big as a pocket
handkerchief in the front.  Here Meg meant to have a fountain,
shrubbery, and a profusion of lovely flowers, though just at present
the fountain was represented by a weather-beaten urn, very like a
dilapidated slopbowl, the shrubbery consisted of several young larches,
undecided whether to live or die, and the profusion of flowers was
merely hinted by regiments of sticks to show where seeds were planted.
But inside, it was altogether charming, and the happy bride saw no
fault from garret to cellar.  To be sure, the hall was so narrow it was
fortunate that they had no piano, for one never could have been got in
whole, the dining room was so small that six people were a tight fit,
and the kitchen stairs seemed built for the express purpose of
precipitating both servants and china pell-mell into the coalbin.  But
once get used to these slight blemishes and nothing could be more
complete, for good sense and good taste had presided over the
furnishing, and the result was highly satisfactory.  There were no
marble-topped tables, long mirrors, or lace curtains in the little
parlor, but simple furniture, plenty of books, a fine picture or two, a
stand of flowers in the bay window, and, scattered all about, the
pretty gifts which came from friendly hands and were the fairer for the
loving messages they brought.

I don't think the Parian Psyche Laurie gave lost any of its beauty
because John put up the bracket it stood upon, that any upholsterer
could have draped the plain muslin curtains more gracefully than Amy's
artistic hand, or that any store-room was ever better provided with
good wishes, merry words, and happy hopes than that in which Jo and her
mother put away Meg's few boxes, barrels, and bundles, and I am morally
certain that the spandy new kitchen never could have looked so cozy and
neat if Hannah had not arranged every pot and pan a dozen times over,
and laid the fire all ready for lighting the minute 'Mis.  Brooke came
home'.  I also doubt if any young matron ever began life with so rich a
supply of dusters, holders, and piece bags, for Beth made enough to
last till the silver wedding came round, and invented three different
kinds of dishcloths for the express service of the bridal china.

People who hire all these things done for them never know what they
lose, for the homeliest tasks get beautified if loving hands do them,
and Meg found so many proofs of this that everything in her small nest,
from the kitchen roller to the silver vase on her parlor table, was
eloquent of home love and tender forethought.

What happy times they had planning together, what solemn shopping
excursions, what funny mistakes they made, and what shouts of laughter
arose over Laurie's ridiculous bargains.  In his love of jokes, this
young gentleman, though nearly through college, was a much of a boy as
ever.  His last whim had been to bring with him on his weekly visits
some new, useful, and ingenious article for the young housekeeper.  Now
a bag of remarkable clothespins, next, a wonderful nutmeg grater which
fell to pieces at the first trial, a knife cleaner that spoiled all the
knives, or a sweeper that picked the nap neatly off the carpet and left
the dirt, labor-saving soap that took the skin off one's hands,
infallible cements which stuck firmly to nothing but the fingers of the
deluded buyer, and every kind of tinware, from a toy savings bank for
odd pennies, to a wonderful boiler which would wash articles in its own
steam with every prospect of exploding in the process.

In vain Meg begged him to stop.  John laughed at him, and Jo called him
'Mr. Toodles'.  He was possessed with a mania for patronizing Yankee
ingenuity, and seeing his friends fitly furnished forth. So each week
beheld some fresh absurdity.

Everything was done at last, even to Amy's arranging different colored
soaps to match the different colored rooms, and Beth's setting the
table for the first meal.

"Are you satisfied?  Does it seem like home, and do you feel as if you
should be happy here?" asked Mrs. March, as she and her daughter went
through the new kingdom arm in arm, for just then they seemed to cling
together more tenderly than ever.

"Yes, Mother, perfectly satisfied, thanks to you all, and so happy that
I can't talk about it," with a look that was far better than words.

"If she only had a servant or two it would be all right," said Amy,
coming out of the parlor, where she had been trying to decide whether
the bronze Mercury looked best on the whatnot or the mantlepiece.

"Mother and I have talked that over, and I have made up my mind to try
her way first.  There will be so little to do that with Lotty to run my
errands and help me here and there, I shall only have enough work to
keep me from getting lazy or homesick," answered Meg tranquilly.

"Sallie Moffat has four," began Amy.

"If Meg had four, the house wouldn't hold them, and master and missis
would have to camp in the garden," broke in Jo, who, enveloped in a big
blue pinafore, was giving the last polish to the door handles.

"Sallie isn't a poor man's wife, and many maids are in keeping with her
fine establishment.  Meg and John begin humbly, but I have a feeling
that there will be quite as much happiness in the little house as in
the big one.  It's a great mistake for young girls like Meg to leave
themselves nothing to do but dress, give orders, and gossip.  When I
was first married, I used to long for my new clothes to wear out or get
torn, so that I might have the pleasure of mending them, for I got
heartily sick of doing fancywork and tending my pocket handkerchief."

"Why didn't you go into the kitchen and make messes, as Sallie says she
does to amuse herself, though they never turn out well and the servants
laugh at her," said Meg.

"I did after a while, not to 'mess' but to learn of Hannah how things
should be done, that my servants need not laugh at me.  It was play
then, but there came a time when I was truly grateful that I not only
possessed the will but the power to cook wholesome food for my little
girls, and help myself when I could no longer afford to hire help.  You
begin at the other end, Meg, dear, but the lessons you learn now will
be of use to you by-and-by when John is a richer man, for the mistress
of a house, however splendid, should know how work ought to be done, if
she wishes to be well and honestly served."

"Yes, Mother, I'm sure of that," said Meg, listening respectfully to
the little lecture, for the best of women will hold forth upon the all
absorbing subject of house keeping.  "Do you know I like this room most
of all in my baby house," added Meg, a minute after, as they went
upstairs and she looked into her well-stored linen closet.

Beth was there, laying the snowy piles smoothly on the shelves and
exulting over the goodly array.  All three laughed as Meg spoke, for
that linen closet was a joke.  You see, having said that if Meg married
'that Brooke' she shouldn't have a cent of her money, Aunt March was
rather in a quandary when time had appeased her wrath and made her
repent her vow.  She never broke her word, and was much exercised in
her mind how to get round it, and at last devised a plan whereby she
could satisfy herself.  Mrs. Carrol, Florence's mamma, was ordered to
buy, have made, and marked a generous supply of house and table linen,
and send it as her present, all of which was faithfully done, but the
secret leaked out, and was greatly enjoyed by the family, for Aunt
March tried to look utterly unconscious, and insisted that she could
give nothing but the old-fashioned pearls long promised to the first
bride.

"That's a housewifely taste which I am glad to see.  I had a young
friend who set up housekeeping with six sheets, but she had finger
bowls for company and that satisfied her," said Mrs. March, patting the
damask tablecloths, with a truly feminine appreciation of their
fineness.

"I haven't a single finger bowl, but this is a setout that will last me
all my days, Hannah says."  And Meg looked quite contented, as well she
might.

A tall, broad-shouldered young fellow, with a cropped head, a felt
basin of a hat, and a flyaway coat, came tramping down the road at a
great pace, walked over the low fence without stopping to open the
gate, straight up to Mrs. March, with both hands out and a hearty...

"Here I am, Mother!  Yes, it's all right."

The last words were in answer to the look the elder lady gave him, a
kindly questioning look which the handsome eyes met so frankly that the
little ceremony closed, as usual, with a motherly kiss.

"For Mrs. John Brooke, with the maker's congratulations and
compliments.  Bless you, Beth!  What a refreshing spectacle you are,
Jo.  Amy, you are getting altogether too handsome for a single lady."

As Laurie spoke, he delivered a brown paper parcel to Meg, pulled
Beth's hair ribbon, stared at Jo's big pinafore, and fell into an
attitude of mock rapture before Amy, then shook hands all round, and
everyone began to talk.

"Where is John?" asked Meg anxiously.

"Stopped to get the license for tomorrow, ma'am."

"Which side won the last match, Teddy?" inquired Jo, who persisted in
feeling an interest in manly sports despite her nineteen years.

"Ours, of course.  Wish you'd been there to see."

"How is the lovely Miss Randal?" asked Amy with a significant smile.

"More cruel than ever.  Don't you see how I'm pining away?" and Laurie
gave his broad chest a sounding slap and heaved a melodramatic sigh.

"What's the last joke?  Undo the bundle and see, Meg," said Beth, eying
the knobby parcel with curiosity.

"It's a useful thing to have in the house in case of fire or thieves,"
observed Laurie, as a watchman's rattle appeared, amid the laughter of
the girls.

"Any time when John is away and you get frightened, Mrs. Meg, just
swing that out of the front window, and it will rouse the neighborhood
in a jiffy.  Nice thing, isn't it?" and Laurie gave them a sample of
its powers that made them cover up their ears.

"There's gratitude for you!  And speaking of gratitude reminds me to
mention that you may thank Hannah for saving your wedding cake from
destruction.  I saw it going into your house as I came by, and if she
hadn't defended it manfully I'd have had a pick at it, for it looked
like a remarkably plummy one."

"I wonder if you will ever grow up, Laurie," said Meg in a matronly
tone.

"I'm doing my best, ma'am, but can't get much higher, I'm afraid, as
six feet is about all men can do in these degenerate days," responded
the young gentleman, whose head was about level with the little
chandelier.

"I suppose it would be profanation to eat anything in this
spick-and-span bower, so as I'm tremendously hungry, I propose an
adjournment," he added presently.

"Mother and I are going to wait for John.  There are some last things
to settle," said Meg, bustling away.

"Beth and I are going over to Kitty Bryant's to get more flowers for
tomorrow," added Amy, tying a picturesque hat over her picturesque
curls, and enjoying the effect as much as anybody.

"Come, Jo, don't desert a fellow.  I'm in such a state of exhaustion I
can't get home without help.  Don't take off your apron, whatever you
do, it's peculiarly becoming," said Laurie, as Jo bestowed his especial
aversion in her capacious pocket and offered her arm to support his
feeble steps.

"Now, Teddy, I want to talk seriously to you about tomorrow," began Jo,
as they strolled away together.  "You must promise to behave well, and
not cut up any pranks, and spoil our plans."

"Not a prank."

"And don't say funny things when we ought to be sober."

"I never do.  You are the one for that."

"And I implore you not to look at me during the ceremony.  I shall
certainly laugh if you do."

"You won't see me, you'll be crying so hard that the thick fog round
you will obscure the prospect."

"I never cry unless for some great affliction."

"Such as fellows going to college, hey?" cut in Laurie, with suggestive
laugh.

"Don't be a peacock.  I only moaned a trifle to keep the girls company."

"Exactly.  I say, Jo, how is Grandpa this week?  Pretty amiable?"

"Very.  Why, have you got into a scrape and want to know how he'll take
it?" asked Jo rather sharply.

"Now, Jo, do you think I'd look your mother in the face and say 'All
right', if it wasn't?" and Laurie stopped short, with an injured air.

"No, I don't."

"Then don't go and be suspicious.  I only want some money," said
Laurie, walking on again, appeased by her hearty tone.

"You spend a great deal, Teddy."

"Bless you, I don't spend it, it spends itself somehow, and is gone
before I know it."

"You are so generous and kind-hearted that you let people borrow, and
can't say 'No' to anyone.  We heard about Henshaw and all you did for
him.  If you always spent money in that way, no one would blame you,"
said Jo warmly.

"Oh, he made a mountain out of a molehill.  You wouldn't have me let
that fine fellow work himself to death just for want of a little help,
when he is worth a dozen of us lazy chaps, would you?"

"Of course not, but I don't see the use of your having seventeen
waistcoats, endless neckties, and a new hat every time you come home. I
thought you'd got over the dandy period, but every now and then it
breaks out in a new spot.  Just now it's the fashion to be hideous, to
make your head look like a scrubbing brush, wear a strait jacket,
orange gloves, and clumping square-toed boots.  If it was cheap
ugliness, I'd say nothing, but it costs as much as the other, and I
don't get any satisfaction out of it."

Laurie threw back his head, and laughed so heartily at this attack,
that the felt hat fell off, and Jo walked on it, which insult only
afforded him an opportunity for expatiating on the advantages of a
rough-and-ready costume, as he folded up the maltreated hat, and
stuffed it into his pocket.

"Don't lecture any more, there's a good soul!  I have enough all
through the week, and like to enjoy myself when I come home. I'll get
myself up regardless of expense tomorrow and be a satisfaction to my
friends."

"I'll leave you in peace if you'll only let your hair grow. I'm not
aristocratic, but I do object to being seen with a person who looks
like a young prize fighter," observed Jo severely.

"This unassuming style promotes study, that's why we adopt it,"
returned Laurie, who certainly could not be accused of vanity, having
voluntarily sacrificed a handsome curly crop to the demand for
quarter-inch-long stubble.

"By the way, Jo, I think that little Parker is really getting desperate
about Amy.  He talks of her constantly, writes poetry, and moons about
in a most suspicious manner.  He'd better nip his little passion in the
bud, hadn't he?" added Laurie, in a confidential, elder brotherly tone,
after a minute's silence.

"Of course he had.  We don't want any more marrying in this family for
years to come.  Mercy on us, what are the children thinking of?" and Jo
looked as much scandalized as if Amy and little Parker were not yet in
their teens.

"It's a fast age, and I don't know what we are coming to, ma'am. You
are a mere infant, but you'll go next, Jo, and we'll be left
lamenting," said Laurie, shaking his head over the degeneracy of the
times.

"Don't be alarmed.  I'm not one of the agreeable sort.  Nobody will
want me, and it's a mercy, for there should always be one old maid in a
family."

"You won't give anyone a chance," said Laurie, with a sidelong glance
and a little more color than before in his sunburned face. "You won't
show the soft side of your character, and if a fellow gets a peep at it
by accident and can't help showing that he likes it, you treat him as
Mrs. Gummidge did her sweetheart, throw cold water over him, and get so
thorny no one dares touch or look at you."

"I don't like that sort of thing.  I'm too busy to be worried with
nonsense, and I think it's dreadful to break up families so. Now don't
say any more about it.  Meg's wedding has turned all our heads, and we
talk of nothing but lovers and such absurdities.  I don't wish to get
cross, so let's change the subject;"  and Jo looked quite ready to
fling cold water on the slightest provocation.

Whatever his feelings might have been, Laurie found a vent for them in
a long low whistle and the fearful prediction as they parted at the
gate, "Mark my words, Jo, you'll go next."

 Three years have passed. Meg has worked and prepared for the wedding; her sisters and mother have enthusiastically helped prepare Dovecote, the little house where Meg and John will take up residence. Mr. March has recovered his health although not his fortune. He seems to spend most of his time absorbed with his books while the women run the household. John has served some time in the war, been wounded and returned home to recover. Since he has not been allowed to return to the army, he takes a job as an underbookkeeper, refusing Mr. Laurence's offers of help. Jo's position with Aunt March is taken over by Amy whom Aunt March bribes with art lessons. Jo continues to write little romances for the paper while secretly working on a novel. Beth has recovered from the fever but has never regained her strength and remains very frail. Laurie has been attending college to please his grandfather. The chapter ends with Jo admonishing Laurie to be serious during the wedding and avoid behaviors that might cause embarrassment or make her laugh. Laurie tries to flirt with Jo, but she will have no part of romantic notions for herself.

