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

Jo caught a bad cold through neglect to cover the shornhead enough, and was ordered to stay at home till she was better,for Aunt March didn't like to hear people read with colds intheir heads. Jo liked this, and after an energetic rummage fromgarret to cellar, subsided on the sofa to nurse her cold witharsenicum and books. Amy found that housework and art did notgo well together, and returned to her mud pies. Meg went dailyto her pupils, and sewed, or thought she did, at home, but muchtime was spent in writing long letters to her mother, or readingthe Washington dispatches over and over. Beth kept on, with onlyslight relapses into idleness or grieving.

All the little duties were faithfully done each day, andmany of her sisters' also, for they were forgetful, and the houseseemed like a clock whose pendulum was gone a-visiting. When herheart got heavy with longings for Mother or fears for Father, shewent away into a certain closet, hid her face in the folds of adear old gown, and made her little moan and prayed her littleprayer quietly by herself. Nobody knew what cheered her up aftera sober fit, but everyone felt how sweet and helpful Beth was, andfell into a way of going to her for comfort or advice in theirsmall affairs.

All were unconscious that this experience was a test ofcharacter, and when the first excitement was over, felt that theyhad done well and deserved praise. So they did, but theirmistake was in ceasing to do well, and they learned this lessonthrough much anxiety and regret.

"Meg, I wish you'd go and see the Hummels. You know Mothertold us not to forget them." said Beth, ten days after Mrs. March'sdeparture.

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

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

"Too stormy for me with my cold."

"I thought it was almost well."

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

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

"I have been every day, but the baby is sick, and I don'tknow what to do for it. Mrs. Hummel goes away to work, andLottchen takes care of it. But it gets sicker and sicker,and I think you or Hannah ought to go."

Beth spoke earnestly, and Meg promised she would go tomorrow.

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

"My head aches and I'm tired, so I thought maybe some of youwould go," said Beth.

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

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

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

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

"Years ago, when Meg did. Why?"

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

"What baby?"

"Mrs. Hummel's. It died in my lap before she got home," criedBeth with a sob.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I guess not. Don't care if I do. Serve me right, selfish pig,to let you go, and stay writing rubbish myself!" muttered Jo, as shewent to consult Hannah.

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

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

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

"I shall, because it's my fault she is sick. I told Mother I'ddo the errands, and I haven't," said Jo decidedly.

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

"Jo, please." And Beth leaned her head against her sister witha contented look, which effectually settled that point.

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

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

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

"Bless your heart, child, it's to keep you well. You don'twant to be sick, do you?"

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

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

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

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

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

"On my honor as a gentleman."

"And come every single day?"

"See if I don't!"

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

"The identical minute."

"And go to the theater, truly?"

"A dozen theaters, if we may."

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

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

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

"How is the little dear?" asked Laurie, for Beth was hisespecial pet, and he felt more anxious about her than he liked toshow.

"She is lying down on Mother's bed, and feels better. Thebaby's death troubled her, but I dare say she has only got cold.Hannah says she thinks so, but she looks worried, and that makes mefidgety," answered Meg.

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

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

"That is what troubles me," said Meg. "I think we ought to tellher if Beth is really ill, but Hannah says we mustn't, for Mothercan't leave Father, and it will only make them anxious. Beth won'tbe sick long, and Hannah knows just what to do, and Mother said wewere to mind her, so I suppose we must, but it doesn't seem quiteright to me."

"Hum, well, I can't say. Suppose you ask Grandfather afterthe doctor has been."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I have great hopes for my boy," observed Jo, watching himfly over the fence with an approving smile.

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

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

Aunt March received them with her usual hospitality.

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

"Go away. No boys allowed here."

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

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

Amy was on the point of crying, but Laurie slyly pulled theparrot's tail, which caused Polly to utter an astonished croak andcall out, "Bless my boots!" in such a funny way, that she laughedinstead.

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

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

"Oh, is he? Well, that won't last long, I fancy. Marchnever had any stamina," was the cheerful reply.

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

"Hold your tongue, you disrespectful old bird! And, Jo, you'dbetter go at once. It isn't proper to be gadding about so late witha rattlepated boy like . . ."

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

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

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