Jo was very busy in the garret, for the October days beganto grow chilly, and the afternoons were short. For two or threehours the sun lay warmly in the high window, showing Jo seatedon the old sofa, writing busily, with her papers spread outupon a trunk before her, while Scrabble, the pet rat,promenaded the beams overhead, accompanied by his oldest son,a fine young fellow, who was evidently very proud of his whiskers.Quite absorbed in her work, Jo scribbled away till the last pagewas filled, when she signed her name with a flourish and threwdown her pen, exclaiming . . .

"There, I've done my best! If this won't suit I shall haveto wait till I can do better."

Lying back on the sofa, she read the manuscript carefullythrough, making dashes here and there, and putting in manyexclamation points, which looked like little balloons. Then shetied it up with a smart red ribbon, and sat a minute looking atit with a sober, wistful expression, which plainly showed howearnest her work had been. Jo's desk up here was an old tinkitchen which hung against the wall. In it she kept her papers,and a few books, safely shut away from Scrabble, who, beinglikewise of a literary turn, was fond of making a circulatinglibrary of such books as were left in his way by eating theleaves. From this tin receptacle Jo produced another manuscript,and putting both in her pocket, crept quietly downstairs, leavingher friends to nibble on her pens and taste her ink.

She put on her hat and jacket as noiselessly as possible, andgoing to the back entry window, got out upon the roof of a lowporch, swung herself down to the grassy bank, and took a roundaboutway to the road. Once there, she composed herself, hailed a passingomnibus, and rolled away to town, looking very merry and mysterious.

If anyone had been watching her, he would have thought hermovements decidedly peculiar, for on alighting, she went off at agreat pace till she reached a certain number in a certain busystreet. Having found the place with some difficulty, she wentinto the doorway, looked up the dirty stairs, and after standingstock still a minute, suddenly dived into the street and walkedaway as rapidly as she came. This maneuver she repeated severaltimes, to the great amusement of a black-eyed young gentlemanlounging in the window of a building opposite. On returning forthe third time, Jo gave herself a shake, pulled her hat over hereyes, and walked up the stairs, looking as if she were going tohave all her teeth out.

There was a dentist's sign, among others, which adorned theentrance, and after staring a moment at the pair of artificialjaws which slowly opened and shut to draw attention to a fineset of teeth, the young gentleman put on his coat, took his hat,and went down to post himself in the opposite doorway, sayingwith a smile and a shiver, "It's like her to come alone, but ifshe has a bad time she'll need someone to help her home."

In ten minutes Jo came running downstairs with a very redface and the general appearance of a person who had just passedthrough a trying ordeal of some sort. When she saw the younggentleman she looked anything but pleased, and passed him with anod. But he followed, asking with an air of sympathy, "Did youhave a bad time?"

"Not very."

"You got through quickly."

"Yes, thank goodness!"

"Why did you go alone?"

"Didn't want anyone to know."

"You're the oddest fellow I ever saw. How many did youhave out?"

Jo looked at her friend as if she did not understand him, thenbegan to laugh as if mightily amused at something.

"There are two which I want to have come out, but I must waita week."

"What are you laughing at? You are up to some mischief, Jo,"said Laurie, looking mystified.

"So are you. What were you doing, sir, up in that billiardsaloon?"

"Begging your pardon, ma'am, it wasn't a billiard saloon, buta gymnasium, and I was taking a lesson in fencing."

"I'm glad of that."

"Why?"

Laurie burst out with a hearty boy's laugh, which madeseveral passers-by smile in spite of themselves.

"No, I was glad that you were not in the saloon, because Ihope you never go to such places. Do you?"

"Not often."

"I wish you wouldn't."

"It's no harm, Jo. I have billiards at home, but it's no fununless you have good players, so, as I'm fond of it, I come sometimesand have a game with Ned Moffat or some of the other fellows."

"Oh, dear, I'm so sorry, for you'll get to liking it better andbetter, and will waste time and money, and grow like those dreadfulboys. I did hope you'd stay respectable and be a satisfaction toyour friends," said Jo, shaking her head.

"Can't a fellow take a little innocent amusement now and thenwithout losing his respectability?" asked Laurie, looking nettled.

"That depends upon how and where he takes it. I don't likeNed and his set, and wish you'd keep out of it. Mother won't letus have him at our house, though he wants to come. And if yougrow like him she won't be willing to have us frolic together aswe do now."

"Won't she?" asked Laurie anxiously.

"No, she can't bear fashionable young men, and she'd shut usall up in bandboxes rather than have us associate with them."

"Well, she needn't get out her bandboxes yet. I'm not afashionable party and don't mean to be, but I do like harmlesslarks now and then, don't you?"

"Yes, nobody minds them, so lark away, but don't get wild,will you? Or there will be an end of all our good times."

"I'll be a double distilled saint."

"I can't bear saints. Just be a simple, honest, respectableboy, and we'll never desert you. I don't know what I should doif you acted like Mr. King's son. He had plenty of money, butdidn't know how to spend it, and got tipsy and gambled, and ranaway, and forged his father's name, I believe, and was altogetherhorrid."

"You think I'm likely to do the same? Much obliged."

"No, I don't - oh, dear, no! - but I hear people talking aboutmoney being such a temptation, and I sometimes wish you were poor.I shouldn't worry then."

"Do you worry about me, Jo?"

"A little, when you look moody and discontented, as you sometimes do,for you've got such a strong will, if you once get started wrong,I'm afraid it would be hard to stop you."

Laurie walked in silence a few minutes, and Jo watched him,wishing she had held her tongue, for his eyes looked angry, thoughhis lips smiled as if at her warnings.

"Are you going to deliver lectures all the way home?" heasked presently.

"Of course not. Why?"

"Because if you are, I'll take a bus. If you're not, I'd liketo walk with you and tell you something very interesting."

"I won't preach any more, and I'd like to hear the newsimmensely."

"Very well, then, come on. It's a secret, and if I tell you,you must tell me yours."

"I haven't got any," began Jo, but stopped suddenly,remembering that she had.

"You know you have - you can't hide anything, so up and 'fess,or I won't tell," cried Laurie.

"Is your secret a nice one?"

"Oh, isn't it! All about people you know, and such fun! Youought to hear it, and I've been aching to tell it this long time.Come, you begin."

"You'll not say anything about it at home, will you?"

"Not a word."

"And you won't tease me in private?"

"I never tease."

"Yes, you do. You get everything you want out of people. Idon't know how you do it, but you are a born wheedler."

"Thank you. Fire away."

"Well, I've left two stories with a newspaperman, and he's togive his answer next week," whispered Jo, in her confidant's ear.

"Hurrah for Miss March, the celebrated American authoress!"cried Laurie, throwing up his hat and catching it again, to thegreat delight of two ducks, four cats, five hens, and half adozen Irish children, for they were out of the city now.

"Hush! It won't come to anything, I dare say, but I couldn'trest till I had tried, and I said nothing about it because I didn'twant anyone else to be disappointed."

"It won't fail. Why, Jo, your stories are works of Shakespearecompared to half the rubbish that is published every day.Won't it be fun to see them in print, and shan't we feel proud ofour authoress?"

Jo's eyes sparkled, for it is always pleasant to be believedin, and a friend's praise is always sweeter than a dozen newspaperpuffs.

"Where's your secret? Play fair, Teddy, or I'll never believeyou again," she said, trying to extinguish the brilliant hopes thatblazed up at a word of encouragement.

"I may get into a scrape for telling, but I didn't promisenot to, so I will, for I never feel easy in my mind till I've toldyou any plummy bit of news I get. I know where Meg's glove is."

"Is that all?" said Jo, looking disappointed, as Laurie noddedand twinkled with a face full of mysterious intelligence.

"It's quite enough for the present, as you'll agree when Itell you where it is."

"Tell, then."

Laurie bent, and whispered three words in Jo's ear, whichproduced a comical change. She stood and stared at him for aminute, looking both surprised and displeased, then walked on,saying sharply, "How do you know?"

"Saw it."

"Where?"

"Pocket."

"All this time?"

"Yes, isn't that romantic?"

"No, it's horrid."

"Don't you like it?"

"Of course I don't. It's ridiculous, it won't be allowed. Mypatience! What would Meg say?"

"You are not to tell anyone. Mind that."

"I didn't promise."

"That was understood, and I trusted you."

"Well, I won't for the present, anyway, but I'm disgusted, andwish you hadn't told me."

"I thought you'd be pleased."

"At the idea of anybody coming to take Meg away? No, thank you."

"You'll feel better about it when somebody comes to take youaway."

"I'd like to see anyone try it," cried Jo fiercely.

"So should I!" and Laurie chuckled at the idea.

"I don't think secrets agree with me, I feel rumpled up inmy mind since you told me that," said Jo rather ungratefully.

"Race down this hill with me, and you'll be all right,"suggested Laurie.

No one was in sight, the smooth road sloped invitingly beforeher, and finding the temptation irresistible, Jo darted away, soonleaving hat and comb behind her and scattering hairpins as she ran.Laurie reached the goal first and was quite satisfied with thesuccess of his treatment, for his Atlanta came panting upwith flying hair, bright eyes, ruddy cheeks, and no signs ofdissatisfaction in her face.

"I wish I was a horse, then I could run for miles in thissplendid air, and not lose my breath. It was capital, but seewhat a guy it's made me. Go, pick up my things, like a cherub,as you are," said Jo, dropping down under a maple tree, whichwas carpeting the bank with crimson leaves.

Laurie leisurely departed to recover the lost property, andJo bundled up her braids, hoping no one would pass by till shewas tidy again. But someone did pass, and who should it be butMeg, looking particularly ladylike in her state and festivalsuit, for she had been making calls.

"What in the world are you doing here?" she asked, regardingher disheveled sister with well-bred surprise.

"Getting leaves," meekly answered Jo, sorting the rosy handfulshe had just swept up.

"And hairpins," added Laurie, throwing half a dozen into Jo'slap. "They grow on this road, Meg, so do combs and brown strawhats."

"You have been running, Jo. How could you? When will you stopsuch romping ways?" said Meg reprovingly, as she settled her cuffsand smoothed her hair, with which the wind had taken liberties.

"Never till I'm stiff and old and have to use a crutch. Don'ttry to make me grow up before my time, Meg. It's hard enough tohave you change all of a sudden. Let me be a little girl as longas I can."

As she spoke, Jo bent over the leaves to hide the tremblingof her lips, for lately she had felt that Margaret was fast gettingto be a woman, and Laurie's secret made her dread the separationwhich must surely come some time and now seemed very near. He sawthe trouble in her face and drew Meg's attention from it by askingquickly, "Where have you been calling, all so fine?"

"At the Gardiners', and Sallie has been telling me all aboutBelle Moffat's wedding. It was very splendid, and they have goneto spend the winter in Paris. Just think how delightful thatmust be!"

"Do you envy her, Meg?" said Laurie.

"I'm afraid I do."

"I'm glad of it!" muttered Jo, tying on her hat with a jerk.

"Why?" asked Meg, looking surprised.

"Because if you care much about riches, you will never go andmarry a poor man," said Jo, frowning at Laurie, who was mutelywarning her to mind what she said.

"I shall never 'go and marry' anyone," observed Meg, walkingon with great dignity while the others followed, laughing,whispering, skipping stones, and 'behaving like children',as Meg said to herself, though she might have been temptedto join them if she had not had her best dress on.

For a week or two, Jo behaved so queerly that her sisterswere quite bewildered. She rushed to the door when the postmanrang, was rude to Mr. Brooke whenever they met, would sit lookingat Meg with a woe-begone face, occasionally jumping up to shakeand then kiss her in a very mysterious manner. Laurie and shewere always making signs to one another, and talking about'Spread Eagles' till the girls declared they had both lost theirwits. On the second Saturday after Jo got out of the window, Meg,as she sat sewing at her window, was scandalized by the sight ofLaurie chasing Jo all over the garden and finally capturing herin Amy's bower. What went on there, Meg could not see, but shrieksof laughter were heard, followed by the murmur of voices and agreat flapping of newspapers.

"What shall we do with that girl? She never will behave likea young lady," sighed Meg, as she watched the race with adisapproving face.

"I hope she won't. She is so funny and dear as she is," saidBeth, who had never betrayed that she was a little hurt at Jo'shaving secrets with anyone but her.

"It's very trying, but we never can make her comme la fo,"added Amy, who sat making some new frills for herself, with hercurls tied up in a very becoming way, two agreeable things thatmade her feel unusually elegant and ladylike.

In a few minutes Jo bounced in, laid herself on the sofa,and affected to read.

"Have you anything interesting there?" asked Meg, with condescension.

"Nothing but a story, won't amount to much, I guess," returnedJo, carefully keeping the name of the paper out of sight.

"You'd better read it aloud. That will amuse us and keep youout of mischief," said Amy in her most grown-up tone.

"What's the name?" asked Beth, wondering why Jo kept her facebehind the sheet.

"The Rival Painters."

"That sounds well. Read it," said Meg.

With a loud "Hem!" and a long breath, Jo began to read veryfast. The girls listened with interest, for the tale was romantic,and somewhat pathetic, as most of the characters died in the end."I like that about the splendid picture," was Amy's approvingremark, as Jo paused.

"I prefer the lovering part. Viola and Angelo are two of ourfavorite names, isn't that queer?" said Meg, wiping her eyes, forthe lovering part was tragical.

"Who wrote it?" asked Beth, who had caught a glimpse of Jo'sface.

The reader suddenly sat up, cast away the paper, displayinga flushed countenance, and with a funny mixture of solemnity andexcitement replied in a loud voice, "Your sister."

"You?" cried Meg, dropping her work.

"It's very good," said Amy critically.

"I knew it! I knew it! Oh, my Jo, I am so proud!" and Bethran to hug her sister and exult over this splendid success.

Dear me, how delighted they all were, to be sure! How Megwouldn't believe it till she saw the words. "Miss JosephineMarch," actually printed in the paper. How graciously Amycritisized the artistic parts of the story, and offered hints fora sequel, which unfortunately couldn't be carried out, as thehero and heroine were dead. How Beth got excited, and skippedand sang with joy. How Hannah came in to exclaim, "Sakes alive,well I never!" in great astonishment at 'that Jo's doin's'. Howproud Mrs. March was when she knew it. How Jo laughed, withtears in her eyes, as she declared she might as well be a peacockand done with it, and how the 'Spread Eagle' might be said toflap his wings triumphantly over the House of March, as thepaper passed from hand to hand.

"Tell us about it." "When did it come?" "How much did youget for it?" "What will Father say?" "Won't Laurie laugh?" criedthe family, all in one breath as they clustered about Jo, forthese foolish, affectionate people made a jubilee of every littlehousehold joy.

"Stop jabbering, girls, and I'll tell you everything,"said Jo, wondering if Miss Burney felt any grander over herEvelina than she did over her 'Rival Painters'. Having toldhow she disposed of her tales, Jo added, "And when I went toget my answer, the man said he liked them both, but didn'tpay beginners, only let them print in his paper, and noticedthe stories. It was good practice, he said, and when thebeginners improved, anyone would pay. So I let him have the twostories, and today this was sent to me, and Laurie caught mewith it and insisted on seeing it, so I let him. And he saidit was good, and I shall write more, and he's going to get thenext paid for, and I am so happy, for in time I may be able tosupport myself and help the girls."

Jo's breath gave out here, and wrapping her head in thepaper, she bedewed her little story with a few natural tears,for to be independent and earn the praise of those she lovedwere the dearest wishes of her heart, and this seemed to be thefirst step toward that happy end.