Beth did have the fever, and was much sicker than anyone butHannah and the doctor suspected. The girls knew nothing aboutillness, and Mr. Laurence was not allowed to see her, so Hannah hadeverything her own way, and busy Dr. Bangs did his best, but left agood deal to the excellent nurse. Meg stayed at home, lest sheshould infect the Kings, and kept house, feeling very anxious and alittle guilty when she wrote letters in which no mention was made ofBeth's illness. She could not think it right to deceive her mother,but she had been bidden to mind Hannah, and Hannah wouldn't hear of'Mrs. March bein' told, and worried just for sech a trifle.'

Jo devoted herself to Beth day and night, not a hard task, forBeth was very patient, and bore her pain uncomplainingly as long asshe could control herself. But there came a time when during thefever fits she began to talk in a hoarse, broken voice, to play onthe coverlet as if on her beloved little piano, and try to sing witha throat so swollen that there was no music left, a time when shedid not know the familiar faces around her, but addressed them bywrong names, and called imploringly for her mother. Then Jo grewfrightened, Meg begged to be allowed to write the truth, and evenHannah said she 'would think of it, though there was no dangeryet'. A letter from Washington added to their trouble, for Mr.March had had a relapse, and could not think of coming home for along while.

How dark the days seemed now, how sad and lonely the house,and how heavy were the hearts of the sisters as they worked andwaited, while the shadow of death hovered over the once happy home.Then it was that Margaret, sitting alone with tears dropping oftenon her work, felt how rich she had been in things more preciousthan any luxuries money could buy - in love, protection, peace, andhealth, the real blessings of life. Then it was that Jo, living inthe darkened room, with that suffering little sister always beforeher eyes and that pathetic voice sounding in her ears, learned tosee the beauty and the sweetness of Beth's nature, to feel how deepand tender a place she filled in all hearts, and to acknowledge theworth of Beth's unselfish ambition to live for others, and makehome happy by that exercise of those simple virtues which all maypossess, and which all should love and value more than talent, wealth,or beauty. And Amy, in her exile, longed eagerly to be at home, thatshe might work for Beth, feeling now that no service would be hard orirksome, and remembering, with regretful grief, how many neglectedtasks those willing hands had done for her. Laurie haunted the houselike a restless ghost, and Mr. Laurence locked the grand piano, becausehe could not bear to be reminded of the young neighbor who used tomake the twilight pleasant for him. Everyone missed Beth. The milkman,baker, grocer, and butcher inquired how she did, poor Mrs. Hummelcame to beg pardon for her thoughtlessness and to get a shroudfor Minna, the neighbors sent all sorts of comforts and good wishes,and even those who knew her best were surprised to find how manyfriends shy little Beth had made.

Meanwhile she lay on her bed with old Joanna at her side, foreven in her wanderings she did not forget her forlorn protege. Shelonged for her cats, but would not have them brought, lest theyshould get sick, and in her quiet hours she was full of anxietyabout Jo. She sent loving messages to Amy, bade them tell her motherthat she would write soon, and often begged for pencil and paper totry to say a word, that Father might not think she had neglected him.But soon even these intervals of consciousness ended, and she layhour after hour, tossing to and fro, with incoherent words on herlips, or sank into a heavy sleep which brought her no refreshment.Dr. Bangs came twice a day, Hannah sat up at night, Meg kept atelegram in her desk all ready to send off at any minute, and Jonever stirred from Beth's side.

The first of December was a wintry day indeed to them, for abitter wind blew, snow fell fast, and the year seemed getting readyfor its death. When Dr. Bangs came that morning, he looked long atBeth, held the hot hand in both his own for a minute, and laid itgently down, saying, in a low voice to Hannah, "If Mrs. March canleave her husband she'd better be sent for."

Hannah nodded without speaking, for her lips twitched nervously,Meg dropped down into a chair as the strength seemed to go out ofher limbs at the sound of those words, and Jo, standing with a paleface for a minute, ran to the parlor, snatched up the telegram, andthrowing on her things, rushed out into the storm. She was soonback, and while noiselessly taking off her cloak, Laurie came inwith a letter, saying that Mr. March was mending again. Jo readit thankfully, but the heavy weight did not seem lifted off herheart, and her face was so full of misery that Laurie asked quickly,"What is it? Is Beth worse?"

"I've sent for Mother," said Jo, tugging at her rubber bootswith a tragic expression.

"Good for you, Jo! Did you do it on your own responsibility?"asked Laurie, as he seated her in the hall chair and took off therebellious boots, seeing how her hands shook.

"No. The doctor told us to."

"Oh, Jo, it's not so bad as that?" cried Laurie, with astartled face.

"Yes, it is. She doesn't know us, she doesn't even talk aboutthe flocks of green doves, as she calls the vine leaves on the wall.She doesn't look like my Beth, and there's nobody to help us bear it.Mother and father both gone, and God seems so far away I can't findHim."

As the tears streamed fast down poor Jo's cheeks, she stretchedout her hand in a helpless sort of way, as if groping in the dark,and Laurie took it in his, whispering as well as he could with alump in his throat, "I'm here. Hold on to me, Jo, dear!"

She could not speak, but she did 'hold on', and the warm graspof the friendly human hand comforted her sore heart, and seemed tolead her nearer to the Divine arm which alone could uphold her inher trouble.

Laurie longed to say something tender and comfortable, but nofitting words came to him, so he stood silent, gently stroking herbent head as her mother used to do. It was the best thing he couldhave done, far more soothing than the most eloquent words, for Jofelt the unspoken sympathy, and in the silence learned the sweetsolace which affection administers to sorrow. Soon she dried thetears which had relieved her, and looked up with a grateful face.

"Thank you, Teddy, I'm better now. I don't feel so forlorn,and will try to bear it if it comes."

"Keep hoping for the best, that will help you, Jo. Soon yourmother will be here, and then everything will be all right."

"I'm so glad Father is better. Now she won't feel so bad aboutleaving him. Oh, me! It does seem as if all the troubles came ina heap, and I got the heaviest part on my shoulders," sighed Jo,spreading her wet handkerchief over her knees to dry.

"Doesn't Meg pull fair?" asked Laurie, looking indignant.

"Oh, yes, she tries to, but she can't love Bethy as I do, andshe won't miss her as I shall. Beth is my conscience, and I can'tgive her up. I can't! I can't!"

Down went Jo's face into the wet handkerchief, and she crieddespairingly, for she had kept up bravely till now and never sheda tear. Laurie drew his hand across his eyes, but could not speaktill he had subdued the choky feeling in his throat and steadied hislips. It might be unmanly, but he couldn't help it, and I am gladof it. Presently, as Jo's sobs quieted, he said hopefully, "Idon't think she will die. She's so good, and we all love her somuch, I don't believe God will take her away yet."

"The good and dear people always do die," groaned Jo, but shestopped crying, for her friend's words cheered her up in spite ofher own doubts and fears.

"Poor girl, you're worn out. It isn't like you to be forlorn.Stop a bit. I'll hearten you up in a jiffy."

Laurie went off two stairs at a time, and Jo laid her weariedhead down on Beth's little brown hood, which no one had thought ofmoving from the table where she left it. It must have possessedsome magic, for the submissive spirit of its gentle owner seemedto enter into Jo, and when Laurie came running down with a glassof wine, she took it with a smile, and said bravely, "I drink - Health to my Beth! You are a good doctor, Teddy, and such a comfortablefriend. How can I ever pay you?" she added, as the winerefreshed her body, as the kind words had done her troubled mind.

"I'll send my bill, by-and-by, and tonight I'll give you somethingthat will warm the cockles of your heart better than quartsof wine," said Laurie, beaming at her with a face of suppressedsatisfaction at something.

"What is it?" cried Jo, forgetting her woes for a minute in her wonder.

"I telegraphed to your mother yesterday, and Brooke answeredshe'd come at once, and she'll be here tonight, and everything willbe all right. Aren't you glad I did it?"

Laurie spoke very fast, and turned red and excited all in a minute,for he had kept his plot a secret, for fear of disappointingthe girls or harming Beth. Jo grew quite white, flew outof her chair, and the moment he stopped speaking she electrified himby throwing her arms round his neck, and crying out, with a joyfulcry, "Oh, Laurie! Oh, Mother! I am so glad!" She did not weepagain, but laughed hysterically, and trembled and clung to herfriend as if she was a little bewildered by the sudden news.

Laurie, though decidedly amazed, behaved with greatpresence of mind. He patted her back soothingly, and finding thatshe was recovering, followed it up by a bashful kiss or two, whichbrought Jo round at once. Holding on to the banisters, she puthim gently away, saying breathlessly, "Oh, don't! I didn't meanto, it was dreadful of me, but you were such a dear to go and doit in spite of Hannah that I couldn't help flying at you. Tellme all about it, and don't give me wine again, it makes me act so."

"I don't mind," laughed Laurie, as he settled his tie. "Why,you see I got fidgety, and so did Grandpa. We thought Hannah wasoverdoing the authority business, and your mother ought to know.She'd never forgive us if Beth . . . Well, if anything happened,you know. So I got grandpa to say it was high time we did something,and off I pelted to the office yesterday, for the doctor looked sober,and Hannah most took my head off when I proposed a telegram. I nevercan bear to be 'lorded over', so that settled my mind, and I did it.Your mother will come, I know, and the late train is in at two A.M.I shall go for her, and you've only got to bottle up your rapture,and keep Beth quiet till that blessed lady gets here."

"Laurie, you're an angel! How shall I ever thank you?"

"Fly at me again. I rather liked it," said Laurie, lookingmischievous, a thing he had not done for a fortnight.

"No, thank you. I'll do it by proxy, when your grandpa comes.Don't tease, but go home and rest, for you'll be up half the night.Bless you, Teddy, bless you!"

Jo had backed into a corner, and as she finished her speech,she vanished precipitately into the kitchen, where she sat downupon a dresser and told the assembled cats that she was "happy,oh, so happy!" while Laurie departed, feeling that he had made arather neat thing of it.

"That's the interferingest chap I ever see, but I forgivehim and do hope Mrs. March is coming right away," said Hannah,with an air of relief, when Jo told the good news.

Meg had a quiet rapture, and then brooded over the letter,while Jo set the sickroom in order, and Hannah "knocked up acouple of pies in case of company unexpected". A breath offresh air seemed to blow through the house, and something betterthan sunshine brightened the quiet rooms. Everything appearedto feel the hopeful change. Beth's bird began to chirp again,and a half-blown rose was discovered on Amy's bush in the window.The fires seemed to burn with unusual cheeriness, and every timethe girls met, their pale faces broke into smiles as they huggedone another, whispering encouragingly, "Mother's coming, dear!Mother's coming!" Every one rejoiced but Beth. She lay in thatheavy stupor, alike unconscious of hope and joy, doubt and danger.It was a piteous sight, the once rosy face so changed and vacant,the once busy hands so weak and wasted, the once smiling lipsquite dumb, and the once pretty, well-kept hair scattered roughand tangled on the pillow. All day she lay so, only rousing nowand then to mutter, "Water!" with lips so parched they couldhardly shape the word. All day Jo and Meg hovered over her,watching, waiting, hoping, and trusting in God and Mother, andall day the snow fell, the bitter wind raged, and the hoursdragged slowly by. But night came at last, and every timethe clock struck, the sisters, still sitting on either side ofthe bed, looked at each other with brightening eyes, for eachhour brought help nearer. The doctor had been in to say thatsome change, for better or worse, would probably take placeabout midnight, at which time he would return.

Hannah, quite worn out, lay down on the sofa at the bed'sfoot and fell fast asleep, Mr. Laurence marched to and fro in theparlor, feeling that he would rather face a rebel battery thanMrs. March's countenance as she entered. Laurie lay on the rug,pretending to rest, but staring into the fire with the thoughtfullook which made his black eyes beautifully soft and clear.

The girls never forgot that night, for no sleep came to themas they kept their watch, with that dreadful sense ofpowerlessness which comes to us in hours like those.

"If God spares Beth, I never will complain again," whisperedMeg earnestly.

"If god spares Beth, I'll try to love and serve Him all mylife," answered Jo, with equal fervor.

"I wish I had no heart, it aches so," sighed Meg, after a pause.

"If life is often as hard as this, I don't see how we evershall get through it," added her sister despondently.

Here the clock struck twelve, and both forgot themselves inwatching Beth, for they fancied a change passed over her wan face.The house was still as death, and nothing but the wailing of thewind broke the deep hush. Weary Hannah slept on, and no one butthe sisters saw the pale shadow which seemed to fall upon thelittle bed. An hour went by, and nothing happened except Laurie'squiet departure for the station. Another hour, still no one came,and anxious fears of delay in the storm, or accidents by the way,or, worst of all, a great grief at Washington, haunted the girls.

It was past two, when Jo, who stood at the window thinkinghow dreary the world looked in its winding sheet of snow, hearda movement by the bed, and turning quickly, saw Meg kneelingbefore their mother's easy chair with her face hidden. A dreadfulfear passed coldly over Jo, as she thought, "Beth is dead, and Megis afraid to tell me."

She was back at her post in an instant, and to her excitedeyes a great change seemed to have taken place. The fever flushand the look of pain were gone, and the beloved little face lookedso pale and peaceful in its utter repose that Jo felt no desire toweep or to lament. Leaning low over this dearest of her sisters,she kissed the damp forehead with her heart on her lips, and softlywhispered, "Goodby, my Beth. Goodby!"

As if awaked by the stir, Hannah started out of her sleep,hurried to the bed, looked at Beth, felt her hands, listened ather lips, and then, throwing her apron over her head, sat downto rock to and fro, exclaiming, under her breath, "The fever'sturned, she's sleepin' nat'ral, her skin's damp, and she breatheseasy. Praise be given! Oh, my goodness me!"

Before the girls could believe the happy truth, the doctorcame to confirm it. He was a homely man, but they thought hisface quite heavenly when he smiled and said, with a fatherly lookat them, "Yes, my dears, I think the little girl will pull throughthis time. Keep the house quiet, let her sleep, and when she wakes,give her . . ."

What they were to give, neither heard, for both crept intothe dark hall, and, sitting on the stairs, held each other close,rejoicing with hearts too full for words. When they went back tobe kissed and cuddled by faithful Hannah, they found Beth lying,as she used to do, with her cheek pillowed on her hand, thedreadful pallor gone, and breathing quietly, as if just fallenasleep.

"If Mother would only come now!" said Jo, as the winter nightbegan to wane.

"See," said Meg, coming up with a white, half-opened rose,"I thought this would hardly be ready to lay in Beth's handtomorrow if she - went away from us. But it has blossomed in thenight, and now I mean to put it in my vase here, so that whenthe darling wakes, the first thing she sees will be the littlerose, and Mother's face."

Never had the sun risen so beautifully, and never had theworld seemed so lovely as it did to the heavy eyes of Meg and Jo,as they looked out in the early morning, when their long, sadvigil was done.

"It looks like a fairy world," said Meg, smiling to herself,as she stood behind the curtain, watching the dazzling sight.

"Hark!" cried Jo, starting to her feet.

Yes, there was a sound of bells at the door below, a cryfrom Hannah, and then Laurie's voice saying in a joyful whisper,"Girls, she's come! She's come!"