Chapter: While Laurie and Amy were taking conjugal strolls over velvet carpets,
as they set their house in order, and planned a blissful future, Mr.
Bhaer and Jo were enjoying promenades of a different sort, along muddy
roads and sodden fields.

"I always do take a walk toward evening, and I don't know why I should
give it up, just because I happen to meet the Professor on his way
out," said Jo to herself, after two or three encounters, for though
there were two paths to Meg's whichever one she took she was sure to
meet him, either going or returning. He was always walking rapidly, and
never seemed to see her until quite close, when he would look as if his
short-sighted eyes had failed to recognize the approaching lady till
that moment.  Then, if she was going to Meg's he always had something
for the babies.  If her face was turned homeward, he had merely
strolled down to see the river, and was just returning, unless they
were tired of his frequent calls.

Under the circumstances, what could Jo do but greet him civilly, and
invite him in?  If she was tired of his visits, she concealed her
weariness with perfect skill, and took care that there should be coffee
for supper, "as Friedrich--I mean Mr. Bhaer--doesn't like tea."

By the second week, everyone knew perfectly well what was going on, yet
everyone tried to look as if they were stone-blind to the changes in
Jo's face.  They never asked why she sang about her work, did up her
hair three times a day, and got so blooming with her evening exercise.
And no one seemed to have the slightest suspicion that Professor Bhaer,
while talking philosophy with the father, was giving the daughter
lessons in love.

Jo couldn't even lose her heart in a decorous manner, but sternly tried
to quench her feelings, and failing to do so, led a somewhat agitated
life.  She was mortally afraid of being laughed at for surrendering,
after her many and vehement declarations of independence.  Laurie was
her especial dread, but thanks to the new manager, he behaved with
praiseworthy propriety, never called Mr. Bhaer 'a capital old fellow'
in public, never alluded, in the remotest manner, to Jo's improved
appearance, or expressed the least surprise at seeing the Professor's
hat on the Marches' table nearly every evening.  But he exulted in
private and longed for the time to come when he could give Jo a piece
of plate, with a bear and a ragged staff on it as an appropriate coat
of arms.

For a fortnight, the Professor came and went with lover-like
regularity.  Then he stayed away for three whole days, and made no
sign, a proceeding which caused everybody to look sober, and Jo to
become pensive, at first, and then--alas for romance--very cross.

"Disgusted, I dare say, and gone home as suddenly as he came. It's
nothing to me, of course, but I should think he would have come and bid
us goodbye like a gentleman," she said to herself, with a despairing
look at the gate, as she put on her things for the customary walk one
dull afternoon.

"You'd better take the little umbrella, dear.  It looks like rain,"
said her mother, observing that she had on her new bonnet, but not
alluding to the fact.

"Yes, Marmee, do you want anything in town?  I've got to run in and get
some paper," returned Jo, pulling out the bow under her chin before the
glass as an excuse for not looking at her mother.

"Yes, I want some twilled silesia, a paper of number nine needles, and
two yards of narrow lavender ribbon.  Have you got your thick boots on,
and something warm under your cloak?"

"I believe so," answered Jo absently.

"If you happen to meet Mr. Bhaer, bring him home to tea. I quite long
to see the dear man," added Mrs. March.

Jo heard that, but made no answer, except to kiss her mother, and walk
rapidly away, thinking with a glow of gratitude, in spite of her
heartache, "How good she is to me! What do girls do who haven't any
mothers to help them through their troubles?"

The dry-goods stores were not down among the counting-houses, banks,
and wholesale warerooms, where gentlemen most do congregate, but Jo
found herself in that part of the city before she did a single errand,
loitering along as if waiting for someone, examining engineering
instruments in one window and samples of wool in another, with most
unfeminine interest, tumbling over barrels, being half-smothered by
descending bales, and hustled unceremoniously by busy men who looked as
if they wondered 'how the deuce she got there'.  A drop of rain on her
cheek recalled her thoughts from baffled hopes to ruined ribbons.  For
the drops continued to fall, and being a woman as well as a lover, she
felt that, though it was too late to save her heart, she might her
bonnet.  Now she remembered the little umbrella, which she had
forgotten to take in her hurry to be off, but regret was unavailing,
and nothing could be done but borrow one or submit to a drenching.  She
looked up at the lowering sky, down at the crimson bow already flecked
with black, forward along the muddy street, then one long, lingering
look behind, at a certain grimy warehouse, with 'Hoffmann, Swartz, &
Co.' over the door, and said to herself, with a sternly reproachful
air...

"It serves me right! what business had I to put on all my best things
and come philandering down here, hoping to see the Professor?  Jo, I'm
ashamed of you!  No, you shall not go there to borrow an umbrella, or
find out where he is, from his friends. You shall trudge away, and do
your errands in the rain, and if you catch your death and ruin your
bonnet, it's no more than you deserve.  Now then!"

With that she rushed across the street so impetuously that she narrowly
escaped annihilation from a passing truck, and precipitated herself
into the arms of a stately old gentleman, who said, "I beg pardon,
ma'am," and looked mortally offended.  Somewhat daunted, Jo righted
herself, spread her handkerchief over the devoted ribbons, and putting
temptation behind her, hurried on, with increasing dampness about the
ankles, and much clashing of umbrellas overhead.  The fact that a
somewhat dilapidated blue one remained stationary above the unprotected
bonnet attracted her attention, and looking up, she saw Mr. Bhaer
looking down.

"I feel to know the strong-minded lady who goes so bravely under many
horse noses, and so fast through much mud.  What do you down here, my
friend?"

"I'm shopping."

Mr. Bhaer smiled, as he glanced from the pickle factory on one side to
the wholesale hide and leather concern on the other, but he only said
politely, "You haf no umbrella.  May I go also, and take for you the
bundles?"

"Yes, thank you."

Jo's cheeks were as red as her ribbon, and she wondered what he thought
of her, but she didn't care, for in a minute she found herself walking
away arm in arm with her Professor, feeling as if the sun had suddenly
burst out with uncommon brilliancy, that the world was all right again,
and that one thoroughly happy woman was paddling through the wet that
day.

"We thought you had gone," said Jo hastily, for she knew he was looking
at her.  Her bonnet wasn't big enough to hide her face, and she feared
he might think the joy it betrayed unmaidenly.

"Did you believe that I should go with no farewell to those who haf
been so heavenly kind to me?" he asked so reproachfully that she felt
as if she had insulted him by the suggestion, and answered heartily...

"No, I didn't.  I knew you were busy about your own affairs, but we
rather missed you, Father and Mother especially."

"And you?"

"I'm always glad to see you, sir."

In her anxiety to keep her voice quite calm, Jo made it rather cool,
and the frosty little monosyllable at the end seemed to chill the
Professor, for his smile vanished, as he said gravely...

"I thank you, and come one more time before I go."

"You are going, then?"

"I haf no longer any business here, it is done."

"Successfully, I hope?" said Jo, for the bitterness of disappointment
was in that short reply of his.

"I ought to think so, for I haf a way opened to me by which I can make
my bread and gif my Junglings much help."

"Tell me, please!  I like to know all about the--the boys," said Jo
eagerly.

"That is so kind, I gladly tell you.  My friends find for me a place in
a college, where I teach as at home, and earn enough to make the way
smooth for Franz and Emil.  For this I should be grateful, should I
not?"

"Indeed you should.  How splendid it will be to have you doing what you
like, and be able to see you often, and the boys!" cried Jo, clinging
to the lads as an excuse for the satisfaction she could not help
betraying.

"Ah!  But we shall not meet often, I fear, this place is at the West."

"So far away!" and Jo left her skirts to their fate, as if it didn't
matter now what became of her clothes or herself.

Mr. Bhaer could read several languages, but he had not learned to read
women yet.  He flattered himself that he knew Jo pretty well, and was,
therefore, much amazed by the contradictions of voice, face, and
manner, which she showed him in rapid succession that day, for she was
in half a dozen different moods in the course of half an hour.  When
she met him she looked surprised, though it was impossible to help
suspecting that she had come for that express purpose.  When he offered
her his arm, she took it with a look that filled him with delight, but
when he asked if she missed him, she gave such a chilly, formal reply
that despair fell upon him.  On learning his good fortune she almost
clapped her hands.  Was the joy all for the boys? Then on hearing his
destination, she said, "So far away!" in a tone of despair that lifted
him on to a pinnacle of hope, but the next minute she tumbled him down
again by observing, like one entirely absorbed in the matter...

"Here's the place for my errands.  Will you come in? It won't take
long."

Jo rather prided herself upon her shopping capabilities, and
particularly wished to impress her escort with the neatness and
dispatch with which she would accomplish the business. But owing to the
flutter she was in, everything went amiss. She upset the tray of
needles, forgot the silesia was to be 'twilled' till it was cut off,
gave the wrong change, and covered herself with confusion by asking for
lavender ribbon at the calico counter.  Mr. Bhaer stood by, watching
her blush and blunder, and as he watched, his own bewilderment seemed
to subside, for he was beginning to see that on some occasions, women,
like dreams, go by contraries.

When they came out, he put the parcel under his arm with a more
cheerful aspect, and splashed through the puddles as if he rather
enjoyed it on the whole.

"Should we no do a little what you call shopping for the babies, and
haf a farewell feast tonight if I go for my last call at your so
pleasant home?" he asked, stopping before a window full of fruit and
flowers.

"What will we buy?" asked Jo, ignoring the latter part of his speech,
and sniffing the mingled odors with an affectation of delight as they
went in.

"May they haf oranges and figs?" asked Mr. Bhaer, with a paternal air.

"They eat them when they can get them."

"Do you care for nuts?"

"Like a squirrel."

"Hamburg grapes.  Yes, we shall drink to the Fatherland in those?"

Jo frowned upon that piece of extravagance, and asked why he didn't buy
a frail of dates, a cask of raisins, and a bag of almonds, and be done
with it?  Whereat Mr. Bhaer confiscated her purse, produced his own,
and finished the marketing by buying several pounds of grapes, a pot of
rosy daisies, and a pretty jar of honey, to be regarded in the light of
a demijohn.  Then distorting his pockets with knobby bundles, and
giving her the flowers to hold, he put up the old umbrella, and they
traveled on again.

"Miss Marsch, I haf a great favor to ask of you," began the Professor,
after a moist promenade of half a block.

"Yes, sir?" and Jo's heart began to beat so hard she was afraid he
would hear it.

"I am bold to say it in spite of the rain, because so short a time
remains to me."

"Yes, sir," and Jo nearly crushed the small flowerpot with the sudden
squeeze she gave it.

"I wish to get a little dress for my Tina, and I am too stupid to go
alone.  Will you kindly gif me a word of taste and help?"

"Yes, sir," and Jo felt as calm and cool all of a sudden as if she had
stepped into a refrigerator.

"Perhaps also a shawl for Tina's mother, she is so poor and sick, and
the husband is such a care.  Yes, yes, a thick, warm shawl would be a
friendly thing to take the little mother."

"I'll do it with pleasure, Mr. Bhaer."  "I'm going very fast, and he's
getting dearer every minute," added Jo to herself, then with a mental
shake she entered into the business with an energy that was pleasant to
behold.

Mr. Bhaer left it all to her, so she chose a pretty gown for Tina, and
then ordered out the shawls.  The clerk, being a married man,
condescended to take an interest in the couple, who appeared to be
shopping for their family.

"Your lady may prefer this.  It's a superior article, a most desirable
color, quite chaste and genteel," he said, shaking out a comfortable
gray shawl, and throwing it over Jo's shoulders.

"Does this suit you, Mr. Bhaer?" she asked, turning her back to him,
and feeling deeply grateful for the chance of hiding her face.

"Excellently well, we will haf it," answered the Professor, smiling to
himself as he paid for it, while Jo continued to rummage the counters
like a confirmed bargain-hunter.

"Now shall we go home?" he asked, as if the words were very pleasant to
him.

"Yes, it's late, and I'm _so_ tired." Jo's voice was more pathetic than
she knew.  For now the sun seemed to have gone in as suddenly as it
came out, and the world grew muddy and miserable again, and for the
first time she discovered that her feet were cold, her head ached, and
that her heart was colder than the former, fuller of pain than the
latter.  Mr. Bhaer was going away, he only cared for her as a friend,
it was all a mistake, and the sooner it was over the better.  With this
idea in her head, she hailed an approaching omnibus with such a hasty
gesture that the daisies flew out of the pot and were badly damaged.

"This is not our omniboos," said the Professor, waving the loaded
vehicle away, and stopping to pick up the poor little flowers.

"I beg your pardon.  I didn't see the name distinctly.  Never mind, I
can walk.  I'm used to plodding in the mud," returned Jo, winking hard,
because she would have died rather than openly wipe her eyes.

Mr. Bhaer saw the drops on her cheeks, though she turned her head away.
The sight seemed to touch him very much, for suddenly stooping down, he
asked in a tone that meant a great deal, "Heart's dearest, why do you
cry?"

Now, if Jo had not been new to this sort of thing she would have said
she wasn't crying, had a cold in her head, or told any other feminine
fib proper to the occasion.  Instead of which, that undignified
creature answered, with an irrepressible sob, "Because you are going
away."

"Ach, mein Gott, that is so good!" cried Mr. Bhaer, managing to clasp
his hands in spite of the umbrella and the bundles, "Jo, I haf nothing
but much love to gif you.  I came to see if you could care for it, and
I waited to be sure that I was something more than a friend.  Am I?
Can you make a little place in your heart for old Fritz?" he added, all
in one breath.

"Oh, yes!" said Jo, and he was quite satisfied, for she folded both
hands over his arm, and looked up at him with an expression that
plainly showed how happy she would be to walk through life beside him,
even though she had no better shelter than the old umbrella, if he
carried it.

It was certainly proposing under difficulties, for even if he had
desired to do so, Mr. Bhaer could not go down upon his knees, on
account of the mud.  Neither could he offer Jo his hand, except
figuratively, for both were full.  Much less could he indulge in tender
remonstrations in the open street, though he was near it.  So the only
way in which he could express his rapture was to look at her, with an
expression which glorified his face to such a degree that there
actually seemed to be little rainbows in the drops that sparkled on his
beard.  If he had not loved Jo very much, I don't think he could have
done it then, for she looked far from lovely, with her skirts in a
deplorable state, her rubber boots splashed to the ankle, and her
bonnet a ruin.  Fortunately, Mr. Bhaer considered her the most
beautiful woman living, and she found him more "Jove-like" than ever,
though his hatbrim was quite limp with the little rills trickling
thence upon his shoulders (for he held the umbrella all over Jo), and
every finger of his gloves needed mending.

Passers-by probably thought them a pair of harmless lunatics, for they
entirely forgot to hail a bus, and strolled leisurely along, oblivious
of deepening dusk and fog.  Little they cared what anybody thought, for
they were enjoying the happy hour that seldom comes but once in any
life, the magical moment which bestows youth on the old, beauty on the
plain, wealth on the poor, and gives human hearts a foretaste of
heaven. The Professor looked as if he had conquered a kingdom, and the
world had nothing more to offer him in the way of bliss.  While Jo
trudged beside him, feeling as if her place had always been there, and
wondering how she ever could have chosen any other lot.  Of course, she
was the first to speak--intelligibly, I mean, for the emotional remarks
which followed her impetuous "Oh, yes!" were not of a coherent or
reportable character.

"Friedrich, why didn't you..."

"Ah, heaven, she gifs me the name that no one speaks since Minna died!"
cried the Professor, pausing in a puddle to regard her with grateful
delight.

"I always call you so to myself--I forgot, but I won't unless you like
it."

"Like it?  It is more sweet to me than I can tell.  Say 'thou', also,
and I shall say your language is almost as beautiful as mine."

"Isn't 'thou' a little sentimental?" asked Jo, privately thinking it a
lovely monosyllable.

"Sentimental? Yes.  Thank Gott, we Germans believe in sentiment, and
keep ourselves young mit it.  Your English 'you' is so cold, say
'thou', heart's dearest, it means so much to me," pleaded Mr. Bhaer,
more like a romantic student than a grave professor.

"Well, then, why didn't thou tell me all this sooner?" asked Jo
bashfully.

"Now I shall haf to show thee all my heart, and I so gladly will,
because thou must take care of it hereafter.  See, then, my Jo--ah, the
dear, funny little name--I had a wish to tell something the day I said
goodbye in New York, but I thought the handsome friend was betrothed to
thee, and so I spoke not.  Wouldst thou have said 'Yes', then, if I had
spoken?"

"I don't know.  I'm afraid not, for I didn't have any heart just then."

"Prut!  That I do not believe.  It was asleep till the fairy prince
came through the wood, and waked it up.  Ah, well, 'Die erste Liebe ist
die beste', but that I should not expect."

"Yes, the first love is the best, but be so contented, for I never had
another.  Teddy was only a boy, and soon got over his little fancy,"
said Jo, anxious to correct the Professor's mistake.

"Good!  Then I shall rest happy, and be sure that thou givest me all.
I haf waited so long, I am grown selfish, as thou wilt find,
Professorin."

"I like that," cried Jo, delighted with her new name.  "Now tell me
what brought you, at last, just when I wanted you?"

"This," and Mr. Bhaer took a little worn paper out of his waistcoat
pocket.

Jo unfolded it, and looked much abashed, for it was one of her own
contributions to a paper that paid for poetry, which accounted for her
sending it an occasional attempt.

"How could that bring you?" she asked, wondering what he meant.

"I found it by chance.  I knew it by the names and the initials, and in
it there was one little verse that seemed to call me.  Read and find
him.  I will see that you go not in the wet."


    IN THE GARRET

    Four little chests all in a row,
    Dim with dust, and worn by time,
    All fashioned and filled, long ago,
    By children now in their prime.
    Four little keys hung side by side,
    With faded ribbons, brave and gay
    When fastened there, with childish pride,
    Long ago, on a rainy day.
    Four little names, one on each lid,
    Carved out by a boyish hand,
    And underneath there lieth hid
    Histories of the happy band
    Once playing here, and pausing oft
    To hear the sweet refrain,
    That came and went on the roof aloft,
    In the falling summer rain.

    "Meg" on the first lid, smooth and fair.
    I look in with loving eyes,
    For folded here, with well-known care,
    A goodly gathering lies,
    The record of a peaceful life--
    Gifts to gentle child and girl,
    A bridal gown, lines to a wife,
    A tiny shoe, a baby curl.
    No toys in this first chest remain,
    For all are carried away,
    In their old age, to join again
    In another small Meg's play.
    Ah, happy mother!  Well I know
    You hear, like a sweet refrain,
    Lullabies ever soft and low
    In the falling summer rain.

    "Jo" on the next lid, scratched and worn,
    And within a motley store
    Of headless dolls, of schoolbooks torn,
    Birds and beasts that speak no more,
    Spoils brought home from the fairy ground
    Only trod by youthful feet,
    Dreams of a future never found,
    Memories of a past still sweet,
    Half-writ poems, stories wild,
    April letters, warm and cold,
    Diaries of a wilful child,
    Hints of a woman early old,
    A woman in a lonely home,
    Hearing, like a sad refrain--
    "Be worthy, love, and love will come,"
    In the falling summer rain.

    My Beth!  the dust is always swept
    From the lid that bears your name,
    As if by loving eyes that wept,
    By careful hands that often came.
    Death canonized for us one saint,
    Ever less human than divine,
    And still we lay, with tender plaint,
    Relics in this household shrine--
    The silver bell, so seldom rung,
    The little cap which last she wore,
    The fair, dead Catherine that hung
    By angels borne above her door.
    The songs she sang, without lament,
    In her prison-house of pain,
    Forever are they sweetly blent
    With the falling summer rain.

    Upon the last lid's polished field--
    Legend now both fair and true
    A gallant knight bears on his shield,
    "Amy" in letters gold and blue.
    Within lie snoods that bound her hair,
    Slippers that have danced their last,
    Faded flowers laid by with care,
    Fans whose airy toils are past,
    Gay valentines, all ardent flames,
    Trifles that have borne their part
    In girlish hopes and fears and shames,
    The record of a maiden heart
    Now learning fairer, truer spells,
    Hearing, like a blithe refrain,
    The silver sound of bridal bells
    In the falling summer rain.

    Four little chests all in a row,
    Dim with dust, and worn by time,
    Four women, taught by weal and woe
    To love and labor in their prime.
    Four sisters, parted for an hour,
    None lost, one only gone before,
    Made by love's immortal power,
    Nearest and dearest evermore.
    Oh, when these hidden stores of ours
    Lie open to the Father's sight,
    May they be rich in golden hours,
    Deeds that show fairer for the light,
    Lives whose brave music long shall ring,
    Like a spirit-stirring strain,
    Souls that shall gladly soar and sing
    In the long sunshine after rain.

"It's very bad poetry, but I felt it when I wrote it, one day when I
was very lonely, and had a good cry on a rag bag.  I never thought it
would go where it could tell tales," said Jo, tearing up the verses the
Professor had treasured so long.

"Let it go, it has done its duty, and I will haf a fresh one when I
read all the brown book in which she keeps her little secrets," said
Mr. Bhaer with a smile as he watched the fragments fly away on the
wind.  "Yes," he added earnestly, "I read that, and I think to myself,
She has a sorrow, she is lonely, she would find comfort in true love.
I haf a heart full, full for her.  Shall I not go and say, 'If this is
not too poor a thing to gif for what I shall hope to receive, take it
in Gott's name?'"

"And so you came to find that it was not too poor, but the one precious
thing I needed," whispered Jo.

"I had no courage to think that at first, heavenly kind as was your
welcome to me.  But soon I began to hope, and then I said, 'I will haf
her if I die for it,' and so I will!" cried Mr. Bhaer, with a defiant
nod, as if the walls of mist closing round them were barriers which he
was to surmount or valiantly knock down.

Jo thought that was splendid, and resolved to be worthy of her knight,
though he did not come prancing on a charger in gorgeous array.

"What made you stay away so long?" she asked presently, finding it so
pleasant to ask confidential questions and get delightful answers that
she could not keep silent.

"It was not easy, but I could not find the heart to take you from that
so happy home until I could haf a prospect of one to gif you, after
much time, perhaps, and hard work.  How could I ask you to gif up so
much for a poor old fellow, who has no fortune but a little learning?"

"I'm glad you are poor.  I couldn't bear a rich husband," said Jo
decidedly, adding in a softer tone, "Don't fear poverty. I've known it
long enough to lose my dread and be happy working for those I love, and
don't call yourself old--forty is the prime of life.  I couldn't help
loving you if you were seventy!"

The Professor found that so touching that he would have been glad of
his handkerchief, if he could have got at it.  As he couldn't, Jo wiped
his eyes for him, and said, laughing, as she took away a bundle or
two...

"I may be strong-minded, but no one can say I'm out of my sphere now,
for woman's special mission is supposed to be drying tears and bearing
burdens.  I'm to carry my share, Friedrich, and help to earn the home.
Make up your mind to that, or I'll never go," she added resolutely, as
he tried to reclaim his load.

"We shall see.  Haf you patience to wait a long time, Jo? I must go
away and do my work alone.  I must help my boys first, because, even
for you, I may not break my word to Minna.  Can you forgif that, and be
happy while we hope and wait?"

"Yes, I know I can, for we love one another, and that makes all the
rest easy to bear.  I have my duty, also, and my work. I couldn't enjoy
myself if I neglected them even for you, so there's no need of hurry or
impatience.  You can do your part out West, I can do mine here, and
both be happy hoping for the best, and leaving the future to be as God
wills."

"Ah! Thou gifest me such hope and courage, and I haf nothing to gif
back but a full heart and these empty hands," cried the Professor,
quite overcome.

Jo never, never would learn to be proper, for when he said that as they
stood upon the steps, she just put both hands into his, whispering
tenderly, "Not empty now," and stooping down, kissed her Friedrich
under the umbrella.  It was dreadful, but she would have done it if the
flock of draggle-tailed sparrows on the hedge had been human beings,
for she was very far gone indeed, and quite regardless of everything
but her own happiness. Though it came in such a very simple guise, that
was the crowning moment of both their lives, when, turning from the
night and storm and loneliness to the household light and warmth and
peace waiting to receive them, with a glad "Welcome home!"  Jo led her
lover in, and shut the door.

 Under the Umbrella After much visiting, Bhaer stays away for three days. Jo heads out one day to run some errands, hoping to run into him. Just as rain begins to fall, she bumps into him, and he then covers her with his umbrella as they do some shopping together. He tells her that he has finished his business in town. He adds that has gotten a job teaching in the West, where he can make some money. She is distressed that he will go so far away, and begins to cry. Because she has displayed her feelings for him, Bhaer feels comfortable telling her that he loves her. She responds that she loves him too, and they decide to get married

