Fortune suddenly smiled upon Jo, and dropped a good luckpenny in her path. Not a golden penny, exactly, but I doubtif half a million would have given more real happiness then didthe little sum that came to her in this wise.

Every few weeks she would shut herself up in her room, puton her scribbling suit, and 'fall into a vortex', as she expressedit, writing away at her novel with all her heart and soul, for tillthat was finished she could find no peace. Her 'scribbling suit'consisted of a black woolen pinafore on which she could wipe herpen at will, and a cap of the same material, adorned with acheerful red bow, into which she bundled her hair when the decks werecleared for action. This cap was a beacon to the inquiring eyes ofher family, who during these periods kept their distance, merelypopping in their heads semi-occasionally to ask, with interest,"Does genius burn, Jo?" They did not always venture even to askthis question, but took an observation of the cap, and judgedaccordingly. If this expressive article of dress was drawn lowupon the forehead, it was a sign that hard work was going on, inexciting moments it was pushed rakishly askew, and when despairseized the author it was plucked wholly off, and cast upon thefloor. At such times the intruder silently withdrew, and notuntil the red bow was seen gaily erect upon the gifted brow,did anyone dare address Jo.

She did not think herself a genius by any means, but when thewriting fit came on, she gave herself up to it with entire abandon,and led a blissful life, unconscious of want, care, or bad weather,while she sat safe and happy in an imaginary world, full of friendsalmost as real and dear to her as any in the flesh. Sleep forsookher eyes, meals stood untasted, day and night were all too short toenjoy the happiness which blessed her only at such times, and madethese hours worth living, even if they bore no other fruit. Thedevine afflatus usually lasted a week or two, and then she emergedfrom her 'vortex', hungry, sleepy, cross, or despondent.

She was just recovering from one of these attacks when she wasprevailed upon to escort Miss Crocker to a lecture, and in returnfor her virtue was rewarded with a new idea. It was a People'sCourse, the lecture on the Pyramids, and Jo rather wondered at thechoice of such a subject for such an audience, but took it forgranted that some great social evil would be remedied or some greatwant supplied by unfolding the glories of the Pharaohs to anaudience whose thoughts were busy with the price of coal and flour,and whose lives were spent in trying to solve harder riddles thanthat of the Sphinx.

They were early, and while Miss Crocker set the heel of herstocking, Jo amused herself by examining the faces of the people whooccupied the seat with them. On her left were two matrons, withmassive foreheads and bonnets to match, discussing Women's Rightsand making tatting. Beyond sat a pair of humble lovers, artlesslyholding each other by the hand, a somber spinster eating peppermintsout of a paper bag, and an old gentleman taking his preparatory napbehind a yellow bandanna. On her right, her only neighbor was astudious looking lad absorbed in a newspaper.

It was a pictorial sheet, and Jo examined the work of art nearesther, idly wondering what fortuitous concatenation of circumstancesneeded the melodramatic illustration of an Indian in full warcostume, tumbling over a precipice with a wolf at his throat, whiletwo infuriated young gentlemen, with unnaturally small feet and bigeyes, were stabbing each other close by, and a disheveled female wasflying away in the background with her mouth wide open. Pausing toturn a page, the lad saw her looking and, with boyish good natureoffered half his paper, saying bluntly, "want to read it? That's afirst-rate story."

Jo accepted it with a smile, for she had never outgrown her likingfor lads, and soon found herself involved in the usual labyrinth oflove, mystery, and murder, for the story belonged to that class oflight literature in which the passions have a holiday, and when theauthor's invention fails, a grand catastrophe clears the stage ofone half the dramatis personae, leaving the other half to exult overtheir downfall.

"Prime, isn't it?" asked the boy, as her eye went down the lastparagraph of her portion.

"I think you and I could do as well as that if we tried,"returned Jo, amused at his admiration of the trash.

"I should think I was a pretty lucky chap if I could. She makesa good living out of such stories, they say." and he pointed to thename of Mrs. S.L.A.N.G. Northbury, under the title of the tale.

"Do you know her?" asked Jo, with sudden interest.

"No, but I read all her pieces, and I know a fellow who works inthe office where this paper is printed."

"Do you say she makes a good living out of stories like this?"and Jo looked more respectfully at the agitated group and thicklysprinkled exclamation points that adorned the page.

"Guess she does! She knows just what folks like, and gets paidwell for writing it."

Here the lecture began, but Jo heard very little of it, for whileProfessor Sands was prosing away about Belzoni, Cheops, scarabei, andhieroglyphics, she was covertly taking down the address of the paper,and boldly resolving to try for the hundred-dollar prize offered inits columns for a sensational story. By the time the lecture endedand the audience awoke, she had built up a splendid fortune for herself(not the first founded on paper), and was already deep in theconcoction of her story, being unable to decide whether the duelshould come before the elopement or after the murder.

Six weeks is a long time to wait, and a still longer time fora girl to keep a secret, but Jo did both, and was just beginningto give up all hope of ever seeing her manuscript again,when a letter arrived which almost took her breath away, for onopening it, a check for a hundred dollars fell into her lap. Fora minute she stared at it as if it had been a snake, then she readher letter and began to cry. If the amiable gentleman who wrotethat kindly note could have known what intense happiness he wasgiving a fellow creature, I think he would devote his leisure hours,if he has any, to that amusement, for Jo valued the letter more thanthe money, because it was encouraging, and after years of effort itwas so pleasant to find that she had learned to do something, thoughit was only to write a sensation story.

A prouder young woman was seldom seen than she, when, havingcomposed herself, she electrified the family by appearing before themwith the letter in one hand, the check in the other, announcing thatshe had won the prize. Of course there was a great jubilee, and whenthe story came everyone read and praised it, though after her fatherhad told her that the language was good, the romance fresh and hearty,and the tragedy quite thrilling, he shook his head, and said in hisunworldly way . . .

"You can do better than this, Jo. Aim at the highest, and nevermind the money."

"I think the money is the best part of it. What will you do withsuch a fortune?" asked Amy, regarding the magic slip of paper with areverential eye.

"Send Beth and Mother to the seaside for a month or two," answeredJo promptly.

To the seaside they went, after much discussion, and though Bethdidn't come home as plump and rosy as could be desired, she was muchbetter, while Mrs. March declared she felt ten years younger. So Jowas satisfied with the investment of her prize money, and fell to workwith a cheery spirit, bent on earning more of those delightful checks.She did earn several that year, and began to feel herself a powerin the house, for by the magic of a pen, her 'rubbish' turned intocomforts for them all. The Duke's Daughter paid the butcher's bill,A Phantom Hand put down a new carpet, and the Curse of the Coventrysproved the blessing of the Marches in the way of groceries and gowns.

Wealth is certainly a most desirable thing, but poverty has itssunny side, and one of the sweet uses of adversity is the genuinesatisfaction which comes from hearty work of head or hand, and to theinspiration of necessity, we owe half the wise, beautiful, and usefulblessings of the world. Jo enjoyed a taste of this satisfaction,and ceased to envy richer girls, taking great comfort in the knowledgethat she could supply her own wants, and need ask no one for a penny.

Little notice was taken of her stories, but they found a market,and encouraged by this fact, she resolved to make a bold stroke forfame and fortune. Having copied her novel for the fourth time, readit to all her confidential friends, and submitted it with fear andtrembling to three publishers, she at last disposed of it, on conditionthat she would cut it down one third, and omit all the partswhich she particularly admired.

"Now I must either bundle it back in to my tin kitchen to mold,pay for printing it myself, or chop it up to suit purchasers and getwhat I can for it. Fame is a very good thing to have in the house,but cash is more convenient, so I wish to take the sense of the meetingon this important subject," said Jo, calling a family council.

"Don't spoil your book, my girl, for there is more in it thanyou know, and the idea is well worked out. Let it wait and ripen,"was her father's advice, and he practiced what he preached, havingwaited patiently thirty years for fruit of his own to ripen, andbeing in no haste to gather it even now when it was sweet and mellow.

"It seems to me that Jo will profit more by taking the trialthan by waiting," said Mrs. March. "Criticism is the best test ofsuch work, for it will show her both unsuspected merits and faults,and help her to do better next time. We are too partial, but thepraise and blame of outsiders will prove useful, even if she getsbut little money."

"Yes," said Jo, knitting her brows, "that's just it. I've beenfussing over the thing so long, I really don't know whether it's good,bad, or indifferent. It will be a great help to have cool, impartialpersons take a look at it, and tell me what they think of it."

"I wouldn't leave a word out of it. You'll spoil it if you do,for the interest of the story is more in the minds than in the actionsof the people, and it will be all a muddle if you don't explain as yougo on," said Meg, who firmly believed that this book was the mostremarkable novel ever written.

"But Mr. Allen says, 'Leave out the explanations, make it briefand dramatic, and let the characters tell the story'," interruptedJo, turning to the publisher's note.

"Do as he tells you. He knows what will sell, and we don't.Make a good, popular book, and get as much money as you can.By-and-by, when you've got a name, you can afford to digress,and have philosophical and metaphysical people in your novels,"said Amy, who took a strictly practical view of the subject.

"Well," said Jo, laughing, "if my people are 'philosophical andmetaphysical', it isn't my fault, for I know nothing about suchthings, except what I hear father say, sometimes. If I've got someof his wise ideas jumbled up with my romance, so much the better forme. Now, Beth, what do you say?"

"I should so like to see it printed soon," was all Beth said,and smiled in saying it. But there was an unconscious emphasis onthe last word, and a wistful look in the eyes that never lost theirchildlike candor, which chilled Jo's heart for a minute with aforboding fear, and decided her to make her little venture 'soon'.

So, with Spartan firmness, the young authoress laid her first-bornon her table, and chopped it up as ruthlessly as any ogre. In the hopeof pleasing everyone, she took everyone's advice, and like the old manand his donkey in the fable suited nobody.

Her father liked the metaphysical streak which had unconsciously gotinto it, so that was allowed to remain though she had her doubtsabout it. Her mother thought that there was a trifle too muchdescription. Out, therefore it came, and with it many necessarylinks in the story. Meg admired the tragedy, so Jo piled up theagony to suit her, while Amy objected to the fun, and, with the bestintentions in life, Jo quenched the spritly scenes which relievedthe somber character of the story. Then, to complicate the ruin, shecut it down one third, and confidingly sent the poor little romance,like a picked robin, out into the big, busy world to try its fate.

Well, it was printed, and she got three hundred dollars forit, likewise plenty of praise and blame, both so much greater thanshe expected that she was thrown into a state of bewilderment fromwhich it took her some time to recover.

"You said, Mother, that criticism would help me. But how canit, when it's so contradictory that I don't know whether I've writtena promising book or broken all the ten commandments?" cried poorJo, turning over a heap of notices, the perusal of which filled herwith pride and joy one minute, wrath and dismay the next. "Thisman says, 'An exquisite book, full of truth, beauty, and earnestness.''All is sweet, pure, and healthy.'" continued the perplexedauthoress. "The next, 'The theory of the book is bad, full ofmorbid fancies, spiritualistic ideas, and unnatural characters.'Now, as I had no theory of any kind, don't believe in Spiritualism,and copied my characters from life, I don't see how this critic canbe right. Another says, 'It's one of the best American novels whichhas appeared for years.' (I know better than that), and the nextasserts that 'Though it is original, and written with great forceand feeling, it is a dangerous book.' 'Tisn't! Some make fun of it,some overpraise, and nearly all insist that I had a deep theory toexpound, when I only wrote it for the pleasure and the money. Iwish I'd printed the whole or not at all, for I do hate to be somisjudged."

Her family and friends administered comfort and commendationliberally. Yet it was a hard time for sensitive, high-spirited Jo,who meant so well and had apparently done so ill. But it did hergood, for those whose opinion had real value gave her the criticismwhich is an author's best education, and when the first sorenesswas over, she could laugh at her poor little book, yet believe init still, and feel herself the wiser and stronger for the buffetingshe had received.

"Not being a genius, like Keats, it won't kill me," she saidstoutly, "and I've got the joke on my side, after all, for the partsthat were taken straight out of real life are denounced as impossibleand absurd, and the scenes that I made up out of my own silly headare pronounced 'charmingly natural, tender, and true'. So I'llcomfort myself with that, and when I'm ready, I'll up again and takeanother."