Chapter XV: Part 15

"Ah, that depends on who wears the apron!" and Laurie gave an audacious tweak at the tassel.

"Are you going?" demanded Jo, diving for the pillow.

He fled at once, and the minute it was well "Up with the bonnets of bonnie Dundee," she slipped away, to return no more till the young gentleman had departed in high dudgeon.

Jo lay long awake that night, and was just dropping off when the sound of a stifled sob made her fly to Beth's bedside, with the anxious inquiry, "What is it, dear?"

"I thought you were asleep," sobbed Beth.

"Is it the old pain, my precious?"

"No; it's a new one; but I can bear it," and Beth tried to check her tears.

"Tell me all about it, and let me cure it as I often did the other."

"You can't; there is no cure." There Beth's voice gave way, and, clinging to her sister, she cried so despairingly that Jo was frightened.

"Where is it? Shall I call mother?"

Beth did not answer the first question; but in the dark one hand went involuntarily to her heart, as if the pain were there; with the other she held Jo fast, whispering eagerly, "No, no, don't call her, don't tell her. I shall be better soon. Lie down here and 'poor' my head. I'll be quiet, and go to sleep; indeed I will."

Jo obeyed; but as her hand went softly to and fro across Beth's hot forehead and wet eyelids, her heart was very full, and she longed to speak. But young as she was, Jo had learned that hearts, like flowers, cannot be rudely handled, but must open naturally; so, though she believed she knew the cause of Beth's new pain, she only said, in her tenderest tone, "Does anything trouble you, deary?"

"Yes, Jo," after a long pause.

"Wouldn't it comfort you to tell me what it is?"

"Not now, not yet."

"Then I won't ask; but remember, Bethy, that mother and Jo are always glad to hear and help you, if they can."

"I know it. I'll tell you by and by."

"Is the pain better now?"

"Oh, yes, much better; you are so comfortable, Jo!"

"Go to sleep, dear; I'll stay with you."

So cheek to cheek they fell asleep, and on the morrow Beth seemed quite herself again; for at eighteen, neither heads nor hearts ache long, and a loving word can medicine most ills.

But Jo had made up her mind, and, after pondering over a project for some days, she confided it to her mother.

"You asked me the other day what my wishes were. I'll tell you one of them, Marmee," she began, as they sat alone together. "I want to go away somewhere this winter for a change."

"Why, Jo?" and her mother looked up quickly, as if the words suggested a double meaning.

With her eyes on her work, Jo answered soberly, "I want something new; I feel restless, and anxious to be seeing, doing, and learning more than I am. I brood too much over my own small affairs, and need stirring up, so, as I can be spared this winter, I'd like to hop a little way, and try my wings."

"Where will you hop?"

"To New York. I had a bright idea yesterday, and this is it. You know Mrs. Kirke wrote to you for some respectable young person to teach her children and sew. It's rather hard to find just the thing, but I think I should suit if I tried."

"My dear, go out to service in that great boarding-house!" and Mrs. March looked surprised, but not displeased.

"It's not exactly going out to service; for Mrs. Kirke is your friend,--the kindest soul that ever lived,--and would make things pleasant for me, I know. Her family is separate from the rest, and no one knows me there. Don't care if they do; it's honest work, and I'm not ashamed of it."

"Nor I; but your writing?"

"All the better for the change. I shall see and hear new things, get new ideas, and, even if I haven't much time there, I shall bring home quantities of material for my rubbish."

"I have no doubt of it; but are these your only reasons for this sudden fancy?"

"No, mother."

"May I know the others?"

Jo looked up and Jo looked down, then said slowly, with sudden color in her cheeks, "It may be vain and wrong to say it, but--I'm afraid--Laurie is getting too fond of me."

"Then you don't care for him in the way it is evident he begins to care for you?" and Mrs. March looked anxious as she put the question.

"Mercy, no! I love the dear boy, as I always have, and am immensely proud of him; but as for anything more, it's out of the question."

"I'm glad of that, Jo."

"Why, please?"

"Because, dear, I don't think you suited to one another. As friends you are very happy, and your frequent quarrels soon blow over; but I fear you would both rebel if you were mated for life. You are too much alike and too fond of freedom, not to mention hot tempers and strong wills, to get on happily together, in a relation which needs infinite patience and forbearance, as well as love."

"That's just the feeling I had, though I couldn't express it. I'm glad you think he is only beginning to care for me. It would trouble me sadly to make him unhappy; for I couldn't fall in love with the dear old fellow merely out of gratitude, could I?"

"You are sure of his feeling for you?"

The color deepened in Jo's cheeks, as she answered, with the look of mingled pleasure, pride, and pain which young girls wear when speaking of first lovers,--

"I'm afraid it is so, mother; he hasn't said anything, but he looks a great deal. I think I had better go away before it comes to anything."

"I agree with you, and if it can be managed you shall go."

Jo looked relieved, and, after a pause, said, smiling, "How Mrs. Moffat would wonder at your want of management, if she knew; and how she will rejoice that Annie still may hope."

"Ah, Jo, mothers may differ in their management, but the hope is the same in all,--the desire to see their children happy. Meg is so, and I am content with her success. You I leave to enjoy your liberty till you tire of it; for only then will you find that there is something sweeter. Amy is my chief care now, but her good sense will help her. For Beth, I indulge no hopes except that she may be well. By the way, she seems brighter this last day or two. Have you spoken to her?"

"Yes; she owned she had a trouble, and promised to tell me by and by. I said no more, for I think I know it;" and Jo told her little story.

Mrs. March shook her head, and did not take so romantic a view of the case, but looked grave, and repeated her opinion that, for Laurie's sake, Jo should go away for a time.

"Let us say nothing about it to him till the plan is settled; then I'll run away before he can collect his wits and be tragical. Beth must think I'm going to please myself, as I am, for I can't talk about Laurie to her; but she can pet and comfort him after I'm gone, and so cure him of this romantic notion. He's been through so many little trials of the sort, he's used to it, and will soon get over his love-lornity."

Jo spoke hopefully, but could not rid herself of the foreboding fear that this "little trial" would be harder than the others, and that Laurie would not get over his "love-lornity" as easily as heretofore.

The plan was talked over in a family council, and agreed upon; for Mrs. Kirke gladly accepted Jo, and promised to make a pleasant home for her. The teaching would render her independent; and such leisure as she got might be made profitable by writing, while the new scenes and society would be both useful and agreeable. Jo liked the prospect and was eager to be gone, for the home-nest was growing too narrow for her restless nature and adventurous spirit. When all was settled, with fear and trembling she told Laurie; but to her surprise he took it very quietly. He had been graver than usual of late, but very pleasant; and, when jokingly accused of turning over a new leaf, he answered soberly, "So I am; and I mean this one shall stay turned."

Jo was very much relieved that one of his virtuous fits should come on just then, and made her preparations with a lightened heart,--for Beth seemed more cheerful,--and hoped she was doing the best for all.

"One thing I leave to your especial care," she said, the night before she left.

"You mean your papers?" asked Beth.

"No, my boy. Be very good to him, won't you?"

"Of course I will; but I can't fill your place, and he'll miss you sadly."

"It won't hurt him; so remember, I leave him in your charge, to plague, pet, and keep in order."

"I'll do my best, for your sake," promised Beth, wondering why Jo looked at her so queerly.

When Laurie said "Good-by," he whispered significantly, "It won't do a bit of good, Jo. My eye is on you; so mind what you do, or I'll come and bring you home."

XXXIII.

JO'S JOURNAL.

"NEW YORK, November.

"DEAR MARMEE AND BETH,--

"I'm going to write you a regular volume, for I've got heaps to
tell, though I'm not a fine young lady travelling on the
continent. When I lost sight of father's dear old face, I felt a
trifle blue, and might have shed a briny drop or two, if an
Irish lady with four small children, all crying more or less,
hadn't diverted my mind; for I amused myself by dropping
gingerbread nuts over the seat every time they opened their
mouths to roar.

"Soon the sun came out, and taking it as a good omen, I cleared
up likewise, and enjoyed my journey with all my heart.

"Mrs. Kirke welcomed me so kindly I felt at home at once, even
in that big house full of strangers. She gave me a funny little
sky-parlor--all she had; but there is a stove in it, and a nice
table in a sunny window, so I can sit here and write whenever I
like. A fine view and a church-tower opposite atone for the many
stairs, and I took a fancy to my den on the spot. The nursery,
where I am to teach and sew, is a pleasant room next Mrs.
Kirke's private parlor, and the two little girls are pretty
children,--rather spoilt, I fancy, but they took to me after
telling them 'The Seven Bad Pigs;' and I've no doubt I shall
make a model governess.

"I am to have my meals with the children, if I prefer it to the
great table, and for the present I do, for I _am_ bashful,
though no one will believe it.

"'Now, my dear, make yourself at home,' said Mrs. K. in her
motherly way; 'I'm on the drive from morning to night, as you
may suppose with such a family; but a great anxiety will be off
my mind if I know the children are safe with you. My rooms are
always open to you, and your own shall be as comfortable as I
can make it. There are some pleasant people in the house if you
feel sociable, and your evenings are always free. Come to me if
anything goes wrong, and be as happy as you can. There's the
tea-bell; I must run and change my cap;' and off she bustled,
leaving me to settle myself in my new nest.

"As I went downstairs, soon after, I saw something I liked. The
flights are very long in this tall house, and as I stood waiting
at the head of the third one for a little servant girl to lumber
up, I saw a gentleman come along behind her, take the heavy hod
of coal out of her hand, carry it all the way up, put it down at
a door near by, and walk away, saying, with a kind nod and a
foreign accent,--

"'It goes better so. The little back is too young to haf such
heaviness.'

"Wasn't it good of him? I like such things, for, as father says,
trifles show character. When I mentioned it to Mrs. K., that
evening, she laughed, and said,--

"'That must have been Professor Bhaer; he's always doing things
of that sort.'

"Mrs. K. told me he was from Berlin; very learned and good, but
poor as a church-mouse, and gives lessons to support himself and
two little orphan nephews whom he is educating here, according
to the wishes of his sister, who married an American. Not a very
romantic story, but it interested me; and I was glad to hear
that Mrs. K. lends him her parlor for some of his scholars.
There is a glass door between it and the nursery, and I mean to
peep at him, and then I'll tell you how he looks. He's almost
forty, so it's no harm, Marmee.

"After tea and a go-to-bed romp with the little girls, I
attacked the big work-basket, and had a quiet evening chatting
with my new friend. I shall keep a journal-letter, and send it
once a week; so good-night, and more to-morrow."

"_Tuesday Eve._

"Had a lively time in my seminary, this morning, for the
children acted like Sancho; and at one time I really thought I
should shake them all round. Some good angel inspired me to try
gymnastics, and I kept it up till they were glad to sit down and
keep still. After luncheon, the girl took them out for a walk,
and I went to my needle-work, like little Mabel, 'with a willing
mind.' I was thanking my stars that I'd learned to make nice
button-holes, when the parlor-door opened and shut, and some one
began to hum,--

'Kennst du das land,'

like a big bumble-bee. It was dreadfully improper, I know, but I
couldn't resist the temptation; and lifting one end of the
curtain before the glass door, I peeped in. Professor Bhaer was
there; and while he arranged his books, I took a good look at
him. A regular German,--rather stout, with brown hair tumbled
all over his head, a bushy beard, good nose, the kindest eyes I
ever saw, and a splendid big voice that does one's ears good,
after our sharp or slipshod American gabble. His clothes were
rusty, his hands were large, and he hadn't a really handsome
feature in his face, except his beautiful teeth; yet I liked
him, for he had a fine head; his linen was very nice, and he
looked like a gentleman, though two buttons were off his coat,
and there was a patch on one shoe. He looked sober in spite of
his humming, till he went to the window to turn the hyacinth
bulbs toward the sun, and stroke the cat, who received him like
an old friend. Then he smiled; and when a tap came at the door,
called out in a loud, brisk tone,--

"'Herein!'

"I was just going to run, when I caught sight of a morsel of a
child carrying a big book, and stopped to see what was going on.

"'Me wants my Bhaer,' said the mite, slamming down her book, and
running to meet him.

"'Thou shalt haf thy Bhaer; come, then, and take a goot hug from
him, my Tina,' said the Professor, catching her up, with a
laugh, and holding her so high over his head that she had to
stoop her little face to kiss him.

"'Now me mus tuddy my lessin,' went on the funny little thing;
so he put her up at the table, opened the great dictionary she
had brought, and gave her a paper and pencil, and she scribbled
away, turning a leaf now and then, and passing her little fat
finger down the page, as if finding a word, so soberly that I
nearly betrayed myself by a laugh, while Mr. Bhaer stood
stroking her pretty hair, with a fatherly look, that made me
think she must be his own, though she looked more French than
German.

"Another knock and the appearance of two young ladies sent me
back to my work, and there I virtuously remained through all the
noise and gabbling that went on next door. One of the girls kept
laughing affectedly, and saying 'Now Professor,' in a
coquettish tone, and the other pronounced her German with an
accent that must have made it hard for him to keep sober.

"Both seemed to try his patience sorely; for more than once I
heard him say emphatically, 'No, no, it is _not_ so; you haf not
attend to what I say;' and once there was a loud rap, as if he
struck the table with his book, followed by the despairing
exclamation, 'Prut! it all goes bad this day.'

"Poor man, I pitied him; and when the girls were gone, took just
one more peep, to see if he survived it. He seemed to have
thrown himself back in his chair, tired out, and sat there with
his eyes shut till the clock struck two, when he jumped up, put
his books in his pocket, as if ready for another lesson, and,
taking little Tina, who had fallen asleep on the sofa, in his
arms, he carried her quietly away. I fancy he has a hard life of
it.

"Mrs. Kirke asked me if I wouldn't go down to the five o'clock
dinner; and, feeling a little bit homesick, I thought I would,
just to see what sort of people are under the same roof with me.
So I made myself respectable, and tried to slip in behind Mrs.
Kirke; but as she is short, and I'm tall, my efforts at
concealment were rather a failure. She gave me a seat by her,
and after my face cooled off, I plucked up courage, and looked
about me. The long table was full, and every one intent on
getting their dinner,--the gentlemen especially, who seemed to
be eating on time, for they _bolted_ in every sense of the word,
vanishing as soon as they were done. There was the usual
assortment of young men absorbed in themselves; young couples
absorbed in each other; married ladies in their babies, and old
gentlemen in politics. I don't think I shall care to have much
to do with any of them, except one sweet-faced maiden lady, who
looks as if she had something in her.

"Cast away at the very bottom of the table was the Professor,
shouting answers to the questions of a very inquisitive, deaf
old gentleman on one side, and talking philosophy with a
Frenchman on the other. If Amy had been here, she'd have turned
her back on him forever, because, sad to relate, he had a great
appetite, and shovelled in his dinner in a manner which would
have horrified 'her ladyship.' I didn't mind, for I like 'to see
folks eat with a relish,' as Hannah says, and the poor man must
have needed a deal of food after teaching idiots all day.

"As I went upstairs after dinner, two of the young men were
settling their hats before the hall-mirror, and I heard one say
low to the other, 'Who's the new party?'

"'Governess, or something of that sort.'

"'What the deuce is she at our table for?'

"'Friend of the old lady's.'

"'Handsome head, but no style.'

"'Not a bit of it. Give us a light and come on.'

"I felt angry at first, and then I didn't care, for a governess
is as good as a clerk, and I've got sense, if I haven't style,
which is more than some people have, judging from the remarks of
the elegant beings who clattered away, smoking like bad
chimneys. I hate ordinary people!"

"_Thursday._

"Yesterday was a quiet day, spent in teaching, sewing, and
writing in my little room, which is very cosey, with a light and
fire. I picked up a few bits of news, and was introduced to the
Professor. It seems that Tina is the child of the Frenchwoman
who does the fine ironing in the laundry here. The little thing
has lost her heart to Mr. Bhaer, and follows him about the house
like a dog whenever he is at home, which delights him, as he is
very fond of children, though a 'bacheldore.' Kitty and Minnie
Kirke likewise regard him with affection, and tell all sorts of
stories about the plays he invents, the presents he brings, and
the splendid tales he tells. The young men quiz him, it seems,
call him Old Fritz, Lager Beer, Ursa Major, and make all manner
of jokes on his name. But he enjoys it like a boy, Mrs. K. says,
and takes it so good-naturedly that they all like him, in spite
of his foreign ways.

"The maiden lady is a Miss Norton,--rich, cultivated, and kind.
She spoke to me at dinner to-day (for I went to table again,
it's such fun to watch people), and asked me to come and see her
at her room. She has fine books and pictures, knows interesting
persons, and seems friendly; so I shall make myself agreeable,
for I _do_ want to get into good society, only it isn't the same
sort that Amy likes.

"I was in our parlor last evening, when Mr. Bhaer came in with
some newspapers for Mrs. Kirke. She wasn't there, but Minnie,
who is a little old woman, introduced me very prettily: 'This is
mamma's friend, Miss March.'

"'Yes; and she's jolly and we like her lots,' added Kitty, who
is an _enfant terrible_.

"We both bowed, and then we laughed, for the prim introduction
and the blunt addition were rather a comical contrast.

"'Ah, yes, I hear these naughty ones go to vex you, Mees Marsch.
If so again, call at me and I come,' he said, with a threatening
frown that delighted the little wretches.

"I promised I would, and he departed; but it seems as if I was
doomed to see a good deal of him, for to-day, as I passed his
door on my way out, by accident I knocked against it with my
umbrella. It flew open, and there he stood in his dressing gown,
with a big blue sock on one hand, and a darning-needle in the
other; he didn't seem at all ashamed of it, for when I explained
and hurried on, he waved his hand, sock and all, saying in his
loud, cheerful way,--

"'You haf a fine day to make your walk. _Bon voyage,
mademoiselle._'

"I laughed all the way downstairs; but it was a little pathetic,
also, to think of the poor man having to mend his own clothes.
The German gentlemen embroider, I know; but darning hose is
another thing, and not so pretty."

"_Saturday._

"Nothing has happened to write about, except a call on Miss
Norton, who has a room full of lovely things, and who was very
charming, for she showed me all her treasures, and asked me if I
would sometimes go with her to lectures and concerts, as her
escort,--if I enjoyed them. She put it as a favor, but I'm sure
Mrs. Kirke has told her about us, and she does it out of
kindness to me. I'm as proud as Lucifer, but such favors from
such people don't burden me, and I accepted gratefully.

"When I got back to the nursery there was such an uproar in the
parlor that I looked in; and there was Mr. Bhaer down on his
hands and knees, with Tina on his back, Kitty leading him with a
jump-rope, and Minnie feeding two small boys with seed-cakes, as
they roared and ramped in cages built of chairs.

"'We are playing _nargerie_,' explained Kitty.

"'Dis is mine effalunt!' added Tina, holding on by the
Professor's hair.

"'Mamma always allows us to do what we like Saturday afternoon,
when Franz and Emil come, doesn't she, Mr. Bhaer?' said
Minnie.

"The 'effalunt' sat up, looking as much in earnest as any of
them, and said soberly to me,--

"'I gif you my wort it is so. If we make too large a noise you
shall say "Hush!" to us, and we go more softly.'

"I promised to do so, but left the door open, and enjoyed the
fun as much as they did,--for a more glorious frolic I never
witnessed. They played tag and soldiers, danced and sung, and
when it began to grow dark they all piled on to the sofa about
the Professor, while he told charming fairy stories of the
storks on the chimney-tops, and the little 'kobolds,' who ride
the snow-flakes as they fall. I wish Americans were as simple
and natural as Germans, don't you?

"I'm so fond of writing, I should go spinning on forever if
motives of economy didn't stop me, for though I've used thin
paper and written fine, I tremble to think of the stamps this
long letter will need. Pray forward Amy's as soon as you can
spare them. My small news will sound very flat after her
splendors, but you will like them, I know. Is Teddy studying so
hard that he can't find time to write to his friends? Take good
care of him for me, Beth, and tell me all about the babies, and
give heaps of love to every one.

"From your faithful JO.

"P. S. On reading over my letter it strikes me as rather Bhaery;
but I am always interested in odd people, and I really had
nothing else to write about. Bless you!"

"DECEMBER.

"MY PRECIOUS BETSEY,--

"As this is to be a scribble-scrabble letter, I direct it to
you, for it may amuse you, and give you some idea of my goings
on; for, though quiet, they are rather amusing, for which, oh,
be joyful! After what Amy would call Herculaneum efforts, in the
way of mental and moral agriculture, my young ideas begin to
shoot and my little twigs to bend as I could wish. They are not
so interesting to me as Tina and the boys, but I do my duty by
them, and they are fond of me. Franz and Emil are jolly little
lads, quite after my own heart; for the mixture of German and
American spirit in them produces a constant state of
effervescence. Saturday afternoons are riotous times, whether
spent in the house or out; for on pleasant days they all go to
walk, like a seminary, with the Professor and myself to keep
order; and then such fun!

"We are very good friends now, and I've begun to take lessons. I
really couldn't help it, and it all came about in such a droll
way that I must tell you. To begin at the beginning, Mrs. Kirke
called to me, one day, as I passed Mr. Bhaer's room, where she
was rummaging.

"'Did you ever see such a den, my dear? Just come and help me
put these books to rights, for I've turned everything upside
down, trying to discover what he has done with the six new
handkerchiefs I gave him not long ago.'

"I went in, and while we worked I looked about me, for it was 'a
den,' to be sure. Books and papers everywhere; a broken
meerschaum, and an old flute over the mantel-piece as if done
with; a ragged bird, without any tail, chirped on one
window-seat, and a box of white mice adorned the other;
half-finished boats and bits of string lay among the
manuscripts; dirty little boots stood drying before the fire;
and traces of the dearly beloved boys, for whom he makes a slave
of himself, were to be seen all over the room. After a grand
rummage three of the missing articles were found,--one over the
bird-cage, one covered with ink, and a third burnt brown, having
been used as a holder.

"'Such a man!' laughed good-natured Mrs. K., as she put the
relics in the rag-bag. 'I suppose the others are torn up to rig
ships, bandage cut fingers, or make kite-tails. It's dreadful,
but I can't scold him: he's so absent-minded and good-natured,
he lets those boys ride over him rough-shod. I agreed to do his
washing and mending, but he forgets to give out his things and I
forget to look them over, so he comes to a sad pass sometimes.'

"'Let me mend them,' said I. 'I don't mind it, and he needn't
know. I'd like to,--he's so kind to me about bringing my letters
and lending books.'

"So I have got his things in order, and knit heels into two
pairs of the socks,--for they were boggled out of shape with his
queer darns. Nothing was said, and I hoped he wouldn't find it
out, but one day last week he caught me at it. Hearing the
lessons he gives to others has interested and amused me so much
that I took a fancy to learn; for Tina runs in and out, leaving
the door open, and I can hear. I had been sitting near this
door, finishing off the last sock, and trying to understand what
he said to a new scholar, who is as stupid as I am. The girl had
gone, and I thought he had also, it was so still, and I was
busily gabbling over a verb, and rocking to and fro in a most
absurd way, when a little crow made me look up, and there was
Mr. Bhaer looking and laughing quietly, while he made signs to
Tina not to betray him.

"'So!' he said, as I stopped and stared like a goose, 'you peep
at me, I peep at you, and that is not bad; but see, I am not
pleasanting when I say, haf you a wish for German?'

"'Yes; but you are too busy. I am too stupid to learn,' I
blundered out, as red as a peony.

"'Prut! we will make the time, and we fail not to find the
sense. At efening I shall gif a little lesson with much
gladness; for, look you, Mees Marsch, I haf this debt to pay,'
and he pointed to my work. 'Yes, they say to one another, these
so kind ladies, "he is a stupid old fellow; he will see not what
we do; he will never opserve that his sock-heels go not in holes
any more, he will think his buttons grow out new when they fall,
and believe that strings make theirselves." Ah! but I haf an
eye, and I see much. I haf a heart, and I feel the thanks for
this. Come, a little lesson then and now, or no more good fairy
works for me and mine.'

"Of course I couldn't say anything after that, and as it really
is a splendid opportunity, I made the bargain, and we began. I
took four lessons, and then I stuck fast in a grammatical bog.
The Professor was very patient with me, but it must have been
torment to him, and now and then he'd look at me with such an
expression of mild despair that it was a toss-up with me whether
to laugh or cry. I tried both ways; and when it came to a sniff
of utter mortification and woe, he just threw the grammar on to
the floor, and marched out of the room. I felt myself disgraced
and deserted forever, but didn't blame him a particle, and was
scrambling my papers together, meaning to rush upstairs and
shake myself hard, when in he came, as brisk and beaming as if
I'd covered myself with glory.

"'Now we shall try a new way. You and I will read these pleasant
little Märchen together, and dig no more in that dry book, that
goes in the corner for making us trouble.'

"He spoke so kindly, and opened Hans Andersen's fairy tales so
invitingly before me, that I was more ashamed than ever, and
went at my lesson in a neck-or-nothing style that seemed to
amuse him immensely. I forgot my bashfulness, and pegged away
(no other word will express it) with all my might, tumbling over
long words, pronouncing according to the inspiration of the
minute, and doing my very best. When I finished reading my first
page, and stopped for breath, he clapped his hands and cried
out, in his hearty way, 'Das ist gute! Now we go well! My turn.
I do him in German; gif me your ear.' And away he went, rumbling
out the words with his strong voice, and a relish which was good
to see as well as hear. Fortunately the story was the 'Constant
Tin Soldier,' which is droll, you know, so I could laugh,--and I
did,--though I didn't understand half he read, for I couldn't
help it, he was so earnest, I so excited, and the whole thing so
comical.

"After that we got on better, and now I read my lessons pretty
well; for this way of studying suits me, and I can see that the
grammar gets tucked into the tales and poetry as one gives pills
in jelly. I like it very much, and he doesn't seem tired of it
yet,--which is very good of him, isn't it? I mean to give him
something on Christmas, for I dare not offer money. Tell me
something nice, Marmee.

"I'm glad Laurie seems so happy and busy, that he has given up
smoking, and lets his hair grow. You see Beth manages him better
than I did. I'm not jealous, dear; do your best, only don't make
a saint of him. I'm afraid I couldn't like him without a spice
of human naughtiness. Read him bits of my letters. I haven't
time to write much, and that will do just as well. Thank Heaven
Beth continues so comfortable."

"JANUARY.

"A Happy New Year to you all, my dearest family, which of course
includes Mr. L. and a young man by the name of Teddy. I can't
tell you how much I enjoyed your Christmas bundle, for I didn't
get it till night, and had given up hoping. Your letter came in
the morning, but you said nothing about a parcel, meaning it
for a surprise; so I was disappointed, for I'd had a 'kind of a
feeling' that you wouldn't forget me. I felt a little low in my
mind, as I sat up in my room, after tea; and when the big,
muddy, battered-looking bundle was brought to me, I just hugged
it, and pranced. It was so _homey_ and refreshing, that I sat
down on the floor and read and looked and ate and laughed and
cried, in my usual absurd way. The things were just what I
wanted, and all the better for being made instead of bought.
Beth's new 'ink-bib' was capital; and Hannah's box of hard
gingerbread will be a treasure. I'll be sure and wear the nice
flannels you sent, Marmee, and read carefully the books father
has marked. Thank you all, heaps and heaps!

"Speaking of books reminds me that I'm getting rich in that
line for, on New Year's Day, Mr. Bhaer gave me a fine
Shakespeare. It is one he values much, and I've often admired
it, set up in the place of honor, with his German Bible, Plato,
Homer, and Milton; so you may imagine how I felt when he
brought it down, without its cover, and showed me my name in
it, 'from my friend Friedrich Bhaer.'

"'You say often you wish a library: here I gif you one; for
between these lids (he meant covers) is many books in one. Read
him well, and he will help you much; for the study of character
in this book will help you to read it in the world and paint it
with your pen.'

"I thanked him as well as I could, and talk now about 'my
library,' as if I had a hundred books. I never knew how much
there was in Shakespeare before; but then I never had a Bhaer to
explain it to me. Now _don't_ laugh at his horrid name; it isn't
pronounced either Bear or Beer, as people _will_ say it, but
something between the two, as only Germans can give it. I'm glad
you both like what I tell you about him, and hope you will know
him some day. Mother would admire his warm heart, father his
wise head. I admire both, and feel rich in my new 'friend
Friedrich Bhaer.'

"Not having much money, or knowing what he'd like, I got several
little things, and put them about the room, where he would find
them unexpectedly. They were useful, pretty, or funny,--a new
standish on his table, a little vase for his flower,--he always
has one, or a bit of green in a glass, to keep him fresh, he
says,--and a holder for his blower, so that he needn't burn up
what Amy calls 'mouchoirs.' I made it like those Beth
invented,--a big butterfly with a fat body, and black and yellow
wings, worsted feelers, and bead eyes. It took his fancy
immensely, and he put it on his mantel-piece as an article of
_vertu_; so it was rather a failure after all. Poor as he is, he
didn't forget a servant or a child in the house; and not a soul
here, from the French laundry-woman to Miss Norton, forgot him.
I was so glad of that.

"They got up a masquerade, and had a gay time New Year's Eve. I
didn't mean to go down, having no dress; but at the last minute,
Mrs. Kirke remembered some old brocades, and Miss Norton lent me
lace and feathers; so I dressed up as Mrs. Malaprop, and sailed
in with a mask on. No one knew me, for I disguised my voice, and
no one dreamed of the silent, haughty Miss March (for they think
I am very stiff and cool, most of them; and so I am to
whipper-snappers) could dance and dress, and burst out into a
'nice derangement of epitaphs, like an allegory on the banks of
the Nile.' I enjoyed it very much; and when we unmasked, it was
fun to see them stare at me. I heard one of the young men tell
another that he knew I'd been an actress; in fact, he thought he
remembered seeing me at one of the minor theatres. Meg will
relish that joke. Mr. Bhaer was Nick Bottom, and Tina was
Titania,--a perfect little fairy in his arms. To see them dance
was 'quite a landscape,' to use a Teddyism.

"I had a very happy New Year, after all; and when I thought it
over in my room, I felt as if I was getting on a little in spite
of my many failures; for I'm cheerful all the time now, work
with a will, and take more interest in other people than I used
to, which is satisfactory. Bless you all! Ever your loving

JO."

XXXIV.

A FRIEND.

Though very happy in the social atmosphere about her, and very busy with the daily work that earned her bread, and made it sweeter for the effort, Jo still found time for literary labors. The purpose which now took possession of her was a natural one to a poor and ambitious girl; but the means she took to gain her end were not the best. She saw that money conferred power: money and power, therefore, she resolved to have; not to be used for herself alone, but for those whom she loved more than self.

The dream of filling home with comforts, giving Beth everything she wanted, from strawberries in winter to an organ in her bedroom; going abroad herself, and always having _more_ than enough, so that she might indulge in the luxury of charity, had been for years Jo's most cherished castle in the air.

The prize-story experience had seemed to open a way which might, after long travelling and much up-hill work lead to this delightful _château en Espagne_. But the novel disaster quenched her courage for a time, for public opinion is a giant which has frightened stouter-hearted Jacks on bigger bean-stalks than hers. Like that immortal hero, she reposed awhile after the first attempt, which resulted in a tumble, and the least lovely of the giant's treasures, if I remember rightly. But the "up again and take another" spirit was as strong in Jo as in Jack; so she scrambled up, on the shady side this time, and got more booty, but nearly left behind her what was far more precious than the money-bags.

She took to writing sensation stories; for in those dark ages, even all-perfect America read rubbish. She told no one, but concocted a "thrilling tale," and boldly carried it herself to Mr. Dashwood, editor of the "Weekly Volcano." She had never read "Sartor Resartus," but she had a womanly instinct that clothes possess an influence more powerful over many than the worth of character or the magic of manners. So she dressed herself in her best, and, trying to persuade herself that she was neither excited nor nervous, bravely climbed two pairs of dark and dirty stairs to find herself in a disorderly room, a cloud of cigar-smoke, and the presence of three gentlemen, sitting with their heels rather higher than their hats, which articles of dress none of them took the trouble to remove on her appearance. Somewhat daunted by this reception, Jo hesitated on the threshold, murmuring in much embarrassment,--

"Excuse me, I was looking for the 'Weekly Volcano' office; I wished to see Mr. Dashwood."

Down went the highest pair of heels, up rose the smokiest gentleman, and, carefully cherishing his cigar between his fingers, he advanced, with a nod, and a countenance expressive of nothing but sleep. Feeling that she must get through the matter somehow, Jo produced her manuscript, and, blushing redder and redder with each sentence, blundered out fragments of the little speech carefully prepared for the occasion.

"A friend of mine desired me to offer--a story--just as an experiment--would like your opinion--be glad to write more if this suits."

While she blushed and blundered, Mr. Dashwood had taken the manuscript, and was turning over the leaves with a pair of rather dirty fingers, and casting critical glances up and down the neat pages.

"Not a first attempt, I take it?" observing that the pages were numbered, covered only on one side, and not tied up with a ribbon,--sure sign of a novice.

"No, sir; she has had some experience, and got a prize for a tale in the 'Blarneystone Banner.'"

"Oh, did she?" and Mr. Dashwood gave Jo a quick look, which seemed to take note of everything she had on, from the bow in her bonnet to the buttons on her boots. "Well, you can leave it, if you like. We've more of this sort of thing on hand than we know what to do with at present; but I'll run my eye over it, and give you an answer next week."

Now, Jo did _not_ like to leave it, for Mr. Dashwood didn't suit her at all; but, under the circumstances, there was nothing for her to do but bow and walk away, looking particularly tall and dignified, as she was apt to do when nettled or abashed. Just then she was both; for it was perfectly evident, from the knowing glances exchanged among the gentlemen, that her little fiction of "my friend" was considered a good joke; and a laugh, produced by some inaudible remark of the editor, as he closed the door, completed her discomfiture. Half resolving never to return, she went home, and worked off her irritation by stitching pinafores vigorously; and in an hour or two was cool enough to laugh over the scene, and long for next week.

When she went again, Mr. Dashwood was alone, whereat she rejoiced; Mr. Dashwood was much wider awake than before, which was agreeable; and Mr. Dashwood was not too deeply absorbed in a cigar to remember his manners: so the second interview was much more comfortable than the first.

"We'll take this" (editors never say I), "if you don't object to a few alterations. It's too long, but omitting the passages I've marked will make it just the right length," he said, in a business-like tone.

Jo hardly knew her own MS. again, so crumpled and underscored were its pages and paragraphs; but, feeling as a tender parent might on being asked to cut off her baby's legs in order that it might fit into a new cradle, she looked at the marked passages, and was surprised to find that all the moral reflections--which she had carefully put in as ballast for much romance--had been stricken out.

"But, sir, I thought every story should have some sort of a moral, so I took care to have a few of my sinners repent."

Mr. Dashwood's editorial gravity relaxed into a smile, for Jo had forgotten her "friend," and spoken as only an author could.

"People want to be amused, not preached at, you know. Morals don't sell nowadays;" which was not quite a correct statement, by the way.

"You think it would do with these alterations, then?"

"Yes; it's a new plot, and pretty well worked up--language good, and so on," was Mr. Dashwood's affable reply.

"What do you--that is, what compensation--" began Jo, not exactly knowing how to express herself.

"Oh, yes, well, we give from twenty-five to thirty for things of this sort. Pay when it comes out," returned Mr. Dashwood, as if that point had escaped him; such trifles often do escape the editorial mind, it is said.

"Very well; you can have it," said Jo, handing back the story, with a satisfied air; for, after the dollar-a-column work, even twenty-five seemed good pay.

"Shall I tell my friend you will take another if she has one better than this?" asked Jo, unconscious of her little slip of the tongue, and emboldened by her success.

"Well, we'll look at it; can't promise to take it. Tell her to make it short and spicy, and never mind the moral. What name would your friend like to put to it?" in a careless tone.

"None at all, if you please; she doesn't wish her name to appear, and has no _nom de plume_," said Jo, blushing in spite of herself.

"Just as she likes, of course. The tale will be out next week; will you call for the money, or shall I send it?" asked Mr. Dashwood, who felt a natural desire to know who his new contributor might be.

"I'll call. Good morning, sir."

As she departed, Mr. Dashwood put up his feet, with the graceful remark, "Poor and proud, as usual, but she'll do."

Following Mr. Dashwood's directions, and making Mrs. Northbury her model, Jo rashly took a plunge into the frothy sea of sensational literature; but, thanks to the life-preserver thrown her by a friend, she came up again, not much the worse for her ducking.

Like most young scribblers, she went abroad for her characters and scenery; and banditti, counts, gypsies, nuns, and duchesses appeared upon her stage, and played their parts with as much accuracy and spirit as could be expected. Her readers were not particular about such trifles as grammar, punctuation, and probability, and Mr. Dashwood graciously permitted her to fill his columns at the lowest prices, not thinking it necessary to tell her that the real cause of his hospitality was the fact that one of his hacks, on being offered higher wages, had basely left him in the lurch.

She soon became interested in her work, for her emaciated purse grew stout, and the little hoard she was making to take Beth to the mountains next summer grew slowly but surely as the weeks passed. One thing disturbed her satisfaction, and that was that she did not tell them at home. She had a feeling that father and mother would not approve, and preferred to have her own way first, and beg pardon afterward. It was easy to keep her secret, for no name appeared with her stories; Mr. Dashwood had, of course, found it out very soon, but promised to be dumb; and, for a wonder, kept his word.

She thought it would do her no harm, for she sincerely meant to write nothing of which she should be ashamed, and quieted all pricks of conscience by anticipations of the happy minute when she should show her earnings and laugh over her well-kept secret.

But Mr. Dashwood rejected any but thrilling tales; and, as thrills could not be produced except by harrowing up the souls of the readers, history and romance, land and sea, science and art, police records and lunatic asylums, had to be ransacked for the purpose. Jo soon found that her innocent experience had given her but few glimpses of the tragic world which underlies society; so, regarding it in a business light, she set about supplying her deficiencies with characteristic energy. Eager to find material for stories, and bent on making them original in plot, if not masterly in execution, she searched newspapers for accidents, incidents, and crimes; she excited the suspicions of public librarians by asking for works on poisons; she studied faces in the street, and characters, good, bad, and indifferent, all about her; she delved in the dust of ancient times for facts or fictions so old that they were as good as new, and introduced herself to folly, sin, and misery, as well as her limited opportunities allowed. She thought she was prospering finely; but, unconsciously, she was beginning to desecrate some of the womanliest attributes of a woman's character. She was living in bad society; and, imaginary though it was, its influence affected her, for she was feeding heart and fancy on dangerous and unsubstantial food, and was fast brushing the innocent bloom from her nature by a premature acquaintance with the darker side of life, which comes soon enough to all of us.

She was beginning to feel rather than see this, for much describing of other people's passions and feelings set her to studying and speculating about her own,--a morbid amusement, in which healthy young minds do not voluntarily indulge. Wrong-doing always brings its own punishment; and, when Jo most needed hers, she got it.

I don't know whether the study of Shakespeare helped her to read character, or the natural instinct of a woman for what was honest, brave, and strong; but while endowing her imaginary heroes with every perfection under the sun, Jo was discovering a live hero, who interested her in spite of many human imperfections. Mr. Bhaer, in one of their conversations, had advised her to study simple, true, and lovely characters, wherever she found them, as good training for a writer. Jo took him at his word, for she coolly turned round and studied him,--a proceeding which would have much surprised him, had he known it, for the worthy Professor was very humble in his own conceit.

Why everybody liked him was what puzzled Jo, at first. He was neither rich nor great, young nor handsome; in no respect what is called fascinating, imposing, or brilliant; and yet he was as attractive as a genial fire, and people seemed to gather about him as naturally as about a warm hearth. He was poor, yet always appeared to be giving something away; a stranger, yet every one was his friend; no longer young, but as happy-hearted as a boy; plain and peculiar, yet his face looked beautiful to many, and his oddities were freely forgiven for his sake. Jo often watched him, trying to discover the charm, and, at last, decided that it was benevolence which worked the miracle. If he had any sorrow, "it sat with its head under its wing," and he turned only his sunny side to the world. There were lines upon his forehead, but Time seemed to have touched him gently, remembering how kind he was to others. The pleasant curves about his mouth were the memorials of many friendly words and cheery laughs; his eyes were never cold or hard, and his big hand had a warm, strong grasp that was more expressive than words.

His very clothes seemed to partake of the hospitable nature of the wearer. They looked as if they were at ease, and liked to make him comfortable; his capacious waistcoat was suggestive of a large heart underneath; his rusty coat had a social air, and the baggy pockets plainly proved that little hands often went in empty and came out full; his very boots were benevolent, and his collars never stiff and raspy like other people's.

"That's it!" said Jo to herself, when she at length discovered that genuine good-will towards one's fellow-men could beautify and dignify even a stout German teacher, who shovelled in his dinner, darned his own socks, and was burdened with the name of Bhaer.