Chapter: XVII. LITTLE FAITHFUL.


                            


For a week the amount of virtue in the old house would have supplied the
neighborhood. It was really amazing, for every one seemed in a heavenly
frame of mind, and self-denial was all the fashion. Relieved of their
first anxiety about their father, the girls insensibly relaxed their
praiseworthy efforts a little, and began to fall back into the old ways.
They did not forget their motto, but hoping and keeping busy seemed to
grow easier; and after such tremendous exertions, they felt that
Endeavor deserved a holiday, and gave it a good many.

Jo caught a bad cold through neglect to cover the shorn head enough, and
was ordered to stay at home till she was better, for Aunt March didn't
like to hear people read with colds in their heads. Jo liked this, and
after an energetic rummage from garret to cellar, subsided on the sofa
to nurse her cold with arsenicum and books. Amy found that housework and
art did not go well together, and returned to her mud pies. Meg went
daily to her pupils, and sewed, or thought she did, at home, but much
time was spent in writing long letters to her mother, or reading the
Washington despatches over and over. Beth kept on, with only slight
relapses into idleness or grieving. All the little duties were
faithfully done each day, and many of her sisters' also, for they were
forgetful, and the house seemed like a clock whose pendulum was gone
a-visiting. When her heart got heavy with longings for mother or fears
for father, she went away into a certain closet, hid her face in the
folds of a certain dear old gown, and made her little moan and prayed
her little prayer quietly by herself. Nobody knew what cheered her up
after a sober fit, but every one felt how sweet and helpful Beth was,
and fell into a way of going to her for comfort or advice in their small
affairs.

All were unconscious that this experience was a test of character; and,
when the first excitement was over, felt that they had done well, and
deserved praise. So they did; but their mistake was in ceasing to do
well, and they learned this lesson through much anxiety and regret.

"Meg, I wish you'd go and see the Hummels; you know mother told us not
to forget them," said Beth, ten days after Mrs. March's departure.

"I'm too tired to go this afternoon," replied Meg, rocking comfortably
as she sewed.

"Can't you, Jo?" asked Beth.

"Too stormy for me with my cold."

"I thought it was almost well."

"It's well enough for me to go out with Laurie, but not well enough to
go to the Hummels'," said Jo, laughing, but looking a little ashamed of
her inconsistency.

"Why don't you go yourself?" asked Meg.

"I _have_ been every day, but the baby is sick, and I don't know what to
do for it. Mrs. Hummel goes away to work, and Lottchen takes care of it;
but it gets sicker and sicker, and I think you or Hannah ought to go."

Beth spoke earnestly, and Meg promised she would go to-morrow.

"Ask Hannah for some nice little mess, and take it round, Beth; the air
will do you good," said Jo, adding apologetically, "I'd go, but I want
to finish my writing."

"My head aches and I'm tired, so I thought may be some of you would go,"
said Beth.

"Amy will be in presently, and she will run down for us," suggested Meg.

"Well, I'll rest a little and wait for her."

So Beth lay down on the sofa, the others returned to their work, and the
Hummels were forgotten. An hour passed: Amy did not come; Meg went to
her room to try on a new dress; Jo was absorbed in her story, and Hannah
was sound asleep before the kitchen fire, when Beth quietly put on her
hood, filled her basket with odds and ends for the poor children, and
went out into the chilly air, with a heavy head, and a grieved look in
her patient eyes. It was late when she came back, and no one saw her
creep upstairs and shut herself into her mother's room. Half an hour
after Jo went to "mother's closet" for something, and there found Beth
sitting on the medicine chest, looking very grave, with red eyes, and a
camphor-bottle in her hand.

"Christopher Columbus! What's the matter?" cried Jo, as Beth put out her
hand as if to warn her off, and asked quickly,--

"You've had the scarlet fever, haven't you?"

"Years ago, when Meg did. Why?"

"Then I'll tell you. Oh, Jo, the baby's dead!"

"What baby?"

"Mrs. Hummel's; it died in my lap before she got home," cried Beth, with
a sob.

"My poor dear, how dreadful for you! I ought to have gone," said Jo,
taking her sister in her arms as she sat down in her mother's big chair,
with a remorseful face.

"It wasn't dreadful, Jo, only so sad! I saw in a minute that it was
sicker, but Lottchen said her mother had gone for a doctor, so I took
baby and let Lotty rest. It seemed asleep, but all of a sudden it gave a
little cry, and trembled, and then lay very still. I tried to warm its
feet, and Lotty gave it some milk, but it didn't stir, and I knew it was
dead."

         [Illustration: It didn't stir, and I knew it was dead]

"Don't cry, dear! What did you do?"

"I just sat and held it softly till Mrs. Hummel came with the doctor. He
said it was dead, and looked at Heinrich and Minna, who have got sore
throats. 'Scarlet fever, ma'am. Ought to have called me before,' he said
crossly. Mrs. Hummel told him she was poor, and had tried to cure baby
herself, but now it was too late, and she could only ask him to help the
others, and trust to charity for his pay. He smiled then, and was
kinder; but it was very sad, and I cried with them till he turned round,
all of a sudden, and told me to go home and take belladonna right away,
or I'd have the fever."

"No, you won't!" cried Jo, hugging her close, with a frightened look. "O
Beth, if you should be sick I never could forgive myself! What _shall_
we do?"

"Don't be frightened, I guess I shan't have it badly. I looked in
mother's book, and saw that it begins with headache, sore throat, and
queer feelings like mine, so I did take some belladonna, and I feel
better," said Beth, laying her cold hands on her hot forehead, and
trying to look well.

"If mother was only at home!" exclaimed Jo, seizing the book, and
feeling that Washington was an immense way off. She read a page, looked
at Beth, felt her head, peeped into her throat, and then said gravely;
"You've been over the baby every day for more than a week, and among the
others who are going to have it; so I'm afraid _you_ are going to have
it, Beth. I'll call Hannah, she knows all about sickness."

"Don't let Amy come; she never had it, and I should hate to give it to
her. Can't you and Meg have it over again?" asked Beth, anxiously.

"I guess not; don't care if I do; serve me right, selfish pig, to let
you go, and stay writing rubbish myself!" muttered Jo, as she went to
consult Hannah.

The good soul was wide awake in a minute, and took the lead at once,
assuring Jo that there was no need to worry; every one had scarlet
fever, and, if rightly treated, nobody died,--all of which Jo believed,
and felt much relieved as they went up to call Meg.

"Now I'll tell you what we'll do," said Hannah, when she had examined
and questioned Beth; "we will have Dr. Bangs, just to take a look at
you, dear, and see that we start right; then we'll send Amy off to Aunt
March's, for a spell, to keep her out of harm's way, and one of you
girls can stay at home and amuse Beth for a day or two."

"I shall stay, of course; I'm oldest," began Meg, looking anxious and
self-reproachful.

"_I_ shall, because it's my fault she is sick; I told mother I'd do the
errands, and I haven't," said Jo decidedly.

"Which will you have, Beth? there ain't no need of but one," said
Hannah.

"Jo, please;" and Beth leaned her head against her sister, with a
contented look, which effectually settled that point.

"I'll go and tell Amy," said Meg, feeling a little hurt, yet rather
relieved, on the whole, for she did not like nursing, and Jo did.

Amy rebelled outright, and passionately declared that she had rather
have the fever than go to Aunt March. Meg reasoned, pleaded, and
commanded: all in vain. Amy protested that she would _not_ go; and Meg
left her in despair, to ask Hannah what should be done. Before she came
back, Laurie walked into the parlor to find Amy sobbing, with her head
in the sofa-cushions. She told her story, expecting to be consoled; but
Laurie only put his hands in his pockets and walked about the room,
whistling softly, as he knit his brows in deep thought. Presently he sat
down beside her, and said, in his most wheedlesome tone, "Now be a
sensible little woman, and do as they say. No, don't cry, but hear what
a jolly plan I've got. You go to Aunt March's, and I'll come and take
you out every day, driving or walking, and we'll have capital times.
Won't that be better than moping here?"

                 [Illustration: He sat down beside her]

"I don't wish to be sent off as if I was in the way," began Amy, in an
injured voice.

"Bless your heart, child, it's to keep you well. You don't want to be
sick, do you?"

"No, I'm sure I don't; but I dare say I shall be, for I've been with
Beth all the time."

"That's the very reason you ought to go away at once, so that you may
escape it. Change of air and care will keep you well, I dare say; or, if
it does not entirely, you will have the fever more lightly. I advise you
to be off as soon as you can, for scarlet fever is no joke, miss."

"But it's dull at Aunt March's, and she is so cross," said Amy, looking
rather frightened.

"It won't be dull with me popping in every day to tell you how Beth is,
and take you out gallivanting. The old lady likes me, and I'll be as
sweet as possible to her, so she won't peck at us, whatever we do."

"Will you take me out in the trotting wagon with Puck?"

"On my honor as a gentleman."

"And come every single day?"

"See if I don't."

"And bring me back the minute Beth is well?"

"The identical minute."

"And go to the theatre, truly?"

"A dozen theatres, if we may."

"Well--I guess--I will," said Amy slowly.

"Good girl! Call Meg, and tell her you'll give in," said Laurie, with an
approving pat, which annoyed Amy more than the "giving in."

Meg and Jo came running down to behold the miracle which had been
wrought; and Amy, feeling very precious and self-sacrificing, promised
to go, if the doctor said Beth was going to be ill.

"How is the little dear?" asked Laurie; for Beth was his especial pet,
and he felt more anxious about her than he liked to show.

"She is lying down on mother's bed, and feels better. The baby's death
troubled her, but I dare say she has only got cold. Hannah _says_ she
thinks so; but she _looks_ worried, and that makes me fidgety," answered
Meg.

"What a trying world it is!" said Jo, rumpling up her hair in a fretful
sort of way. "No sooner do we get out of one trouble than down comes
another. There doesn't seem to be anything to hold on to when mother's
gone; so I'm all at sea."

"Well, don't make a porcupine of yourself, it isn't becoming. Settle
your wig, Jo, and tell me if I shall telegraph to your mother, or do
anything?" asked Laurie, who never had been reconciled to the loss of
his friend's one beauty.

"That is what troubles me," said Meg. "I think we ought to tell her if
Beth is really ill, but Hannah says we mustn't, for mother can't leave
father, and it will only make them anxious. Beth won't be sick long, and
Hannah knows just what to do, and mother said we were to mind her, so I
suppose we must, but it doesn't seem quite right to me."

"Hum, well, I can't say; suppose you ask grandfather after the doctor
has been."

"We will. Jo, go and get Dr. Bangs at once," commanded Meg; "we can't
decide anything till he has been."

"Stay where you are, Jo; I'm errand-boy to this establishment," said
Laurie, taking up his cap.

"I'm afraid you are busy," began Meg.

"No, I've done my lessons for the day."

"Do you study in vacation time?" asked Jo.

"I follow the good example my neighbors set me," was Laurie's answer, as
he swung himself out of the room.

"I have great hopes of my boy," observed Jo, watching him fly over the
fence with an approving smile.

"He does very well--for a boy," was Meg's somewhat ungracious answer,
for the subject did not interest her.

Dr. Bangs came, said Beth had symptoms of the fever, but thought she
would have it lightly, though he looked sober over the Hummel story. Amy
was ordered off at once, and provided with something to ward off danger,
she departed in great state, with Jo and Laurie as escort.

Aunt March received them with her usual hospitality.

"What do you want now?" she asked, looking sharply over her spectacles,
while the parrot, sitting on the back of her chair, called out,--

                 [Illustration: What do you want now?]

"Go away. No boys allowed here."

Laurie retired to the window, and Jo told her story.

"No more than I expected, if you are allowed to go poking about among
poor folks. Amy can stay and make herself useful if she isn't sick,
which I've no doubt she will be,--looks like it now. Don't cry, child,
it worries me to hear people sniff."

Amy _was_ on the point of crying, but Laurie slyly pulled the parrot's
tail, which caused Polly to utter an astonished croak, and call out,--

"Bless my boots!" in such a funny way, that she laughed instead.

"What do you hear from your mother?" asked the old lady gruffly.

"Father is much better," replied Jo, trying to keep sober.

"Oh, is he? Well, that won't last long, I fancy; March never had any
stamina," was the cheerful reply.

"Ha, ha! never say die, take a pinch of snuff, good by, good by!"
squalled Polly, dancing on her perch, and clawing at the old lady's cap
as Laurie tweaked him in the rear.

"Hold your tongue, you disrespectful old bird! and, Jo, you'd better go
at once; it isn't proper to be gadding about so late with a rattle-pated
boy like--"

"Hold your tongue, you disrespectful old bird!" cried Polly, tumbling
off the chair with a bounce, and running to peck the "rattle-pated" boy,
who was shaking with laughter at the last speech.

"I don't think I _can_ bear it, but I'll try," thought Amy, as she was
left alone with Aunt March.

"Get along, you fright!" screamed Polly; and at that rude speech Amy
could not restrain a sniff.

 Little Faithful After a week of their tremendous hard work and virtue, the girls become a little less faithful. Jo catches cold, Amy returns to her art, and Meg spends much time rereading Mr. Brooke's dispatches and writing to her Mother. Beth keeps up with her chores and does many of her sisters' as well. She goes to see the Hummels every day, but when the baby gets sick, she asks Meg or Jo to go instead, to try to help. They all put it off until later, until Beth decides to go herself, despite feeling tired and achy. She returns home that evening, and Jo finds her in the medicine closet, reading about scarlet fever. The Hummel baby had died in her arms while the mother had gone to get the doctor, and when the doctor returned, he sent Beth home to take belladonna to prevent getting sick. Jo feels guilty and responsible for letting Beth go, rather than going herself. She wakes Hannah, who reassures everyone that Beth will be all right. Jo and Meg had scarlet fever when they were babies, but Amy is sent to Aunt March's to prevent getting sick. She refuses to go, until Laurie promises to come visit her every day. Jo becomes Beth's nurse. Hannah says that, as Beth will be all right, they should not tell Mother and Father, who will just be anxious. They were instructed to mind Hannah, so the girls obey, despite disliking lying and being worried about Beth

