"Why, Mother, she has seemed unusually well since thebabies came."

"It's not her health that troubles me now, it's her spirits.I'm sure there is something on her mind, and I want you to discoverwhat it is."

"What makes you think so, Mother?"

"She sits alone a good deal, and doesn't talk to her fatheras much as she used. I found her crying over the babies theother day. When she sings, the songs are always sad ones, andnow and then I see a look in her face that I don't understand.This isn't like Beth, and it worries me."

"Have you asked her about it?"

"I have tried once or twice, but she either evaded myquestions or looked so distressed that I stopped. I neverforce my children's confidence, and I seldom have to waitfor long."

Mrs. March glanced at Jo as she spoke, but the faceopposite seemed quite unconscious of any secret disquietudebut Beth's, and after sewing thoughtfully for a minute, Josaid, "I think she is growing up, and so begins to dream dreams,and have hopes and fears and fidgets, without knowing why orbeing able to explain them. Why, Mother, Beth's eighteen, butwe don't realize it, and treat her like a child, forgettingshe's a woman."

"So she is. Dear heart, how fast you do grow up," returnedher mother with a sigh and a smile.

"Can't be helped, Marmee, so you must resign yourself toall sorts of worries, and let your birds hop out of the nest,one by one. I promise never to hop very far, if that is anycomfort to you."

"It's a great comfort, Jo. I always feel strong when youare at home, now Meg is gone. Beth is too feeble and Amy tooyoung to depend upon, but when the tug comes, you are alwaysready."

"Why, you know I don't mind hard jobs much, and theremust always be one scrub in a family. Amy is splendid in fineworks and I'm not, but I feel in my element when all the carpetsare to be taken up, or half the family fall sick at once.Amy is distinguishing herself abroad, but if anything is amissat home, I'm your man."

"I leave Beth to your hands, then, for she will open hertender little heart to her Jo sooner than to anyone else. Bevery kind, and don't let her think anyone watches or talksabout her. If she only would get quite strong and cheerfulagain, I shouldn't have a wish in the world."

"Happy woman! I've got heaps."

"My dear, what are they?"

"I'll settle Bethy's troubles, and then I'll tell you mine.They are not very wearing, so they'll keep." and Jo stitched away,with a wise nod which set her mother's heart at rest about her forthe present at least.

While apparently absorbed in her own affairs, Jo watchedBeth, and after many conflicting conjectures, finally settledupon one which seemed to explain the change in her. A slightincident gave Jo the clue to the mystery, she thought, andlively fancy, loving heart did the rest. She was affectingto write busily one Saturday afternoon, when she and Beth werealone together. Yet as she scribbled, she kept her eye on hersister, who seemed unusually quiet. Sitting at the window, Beth'swork often dropped into her lap, and she leaned her head upon herhand, in a dejected attitude, while her eyes rested on the dull,autumnal landscape. Suddenly some one passed below, whistlinglike an operatic blackbird, and a voice called out, "All serene!Coming in tonight."

Beth started, leaned forward, smiled and nodded, watched thepasser-by till his quick tramp died away, then said softly as ifto herself, "How strong and well and happy that dear boy looks."

"Hum!" said Jo, still intent upon her sister's face, for thebright color faded as quickly as it came, the smile vanished, andpresently a tear lay shining on the window ledge. Beth whiskedit off, and in her half-averted face read a tender sorrow thatmade her own eyes fill. Fearing to betray herself, she slippedaway, murmuring something about needing more paper.

"Mercy on me, Beth loves Laurie!" she said, sitting down inher own room, pale with the shock of the discovery which shebelieved she had just made. "I never dreamed of such a thing.What will Mother say? I wonder if her . . ." there Jo stoppedand turned scarlet with a sudden thought. "If he shouldn't loveback again, how dreadful it would be. He must. I'll make him!"and she shook her head threateningly at the picture of themischievous-looking boy laughing at her from the wall. "Oh dear,we are growing up with a vengeance. Here's Meg married and amamma, Amy flourishing away at Paris, and Beth in love. I'm theonly one that has sense enough to keep out of mischief." Jothought intently for a minute with her eyes fixed on the picture,then she smoothed out her wrinkled forehead and said, with adecided nod at the face opposite, "No thank you, sir, you're verycharming, but you've no more stability than a weathercock. So youneedn't write touching notes and smile in that insinuating way,for it won't do a bit of good, and I won't have it."

Then she sighed, and fell into a reverie from which shedid not wake till the early twilight sent her down to take newobservations, which only confirmed her suspicion. ThoughLaurie flirted with Amy and joked with Jo, his manner to Bethhad always been peculiarly kind and gentle, but so was everybody's.Therefore, no one thought of imagining that he cared morefor her than for the others. Indeed, a general impressionhad prevailed in the family of late that 'our boy' was gettingfonder than ever of Jo, who, however, wouldn't hear a word uponthe subject and scolded violently if anyone dared to suggest it.If they had known the various tender passages which had beennipped in the bud, they would have had the immense satisfactionof saying, "I told you so." But Jo hated 'philandering', andwouldn't allow it, always having a joke or a smile ready at theleast sign of impending danger.

When Laurie first went to college, he fell in love aboutonce a month, but these small flames were as brief as ardent,did no damage, and much amused Jo, who took great interest inthe alternations of hope, despair, and resignation, which wereconfided to her in their weekly conferences. But there came atime when Laurie ceased to worship at many shrines, hinteddarkly at one all-absorbing passion, and indulged occasionallyin Byronic fits of gloom. Then he avoided the tender subjectaltogether, wrote philosophical notes to Jo, turned studious,and gave out that he was going to 'dig', intending to graduatein a blaze of glory. This suited the young lady better thantwilight confidences, tender pressures of the hand, andeloquent glances of the eye, for with Jo, brain developedearlier than heart, and she preferred imaginary heroes toreal ones, because when tired of them, the former could beshut up in the tin kitchen till called for, and the latterwere less manageable.

Things were in this state when the grand discovery wasmade, and Jo watched Laurie that night as she had never donebefore. If she had not got the new idea into her head, shewould have seen nothing unusual in the fact that Beth wasvery quiet, and Laurie very kind to her. But having given therein to her lively fancy, it galloped away with her at a greatpace, and common sense, being rather weakened by a long courseof romance writing, did not come to the rescue. As usual Bethlay on the sofa and Laurie sat in a low chair close by, amusingher with all sorts of gossip, for she depended on her weekly'spin', and he never disappointed her. But that evening Jofancied that Beth's eyes rested on the lively, dark facebeside her with peculiar pleasure, and that she listened withintense interest to an account of some exciting cricket match,though the phrases, 'caught off a tice', 'stumped off his ground',and 'the leg hit for three', were as intelligible to her asSanskrit. She also fancied, having set her heart upon seeing it,that she saw a certain increase of gentleness in Laurie's manner,that he dropped his voice now and then, laughed less than usual,was a little absent-minded, and settled the afghan over Beth'sfeet with an assiduity that was really almost tender.

"Who knows? Stranger things have happened," thought Jo,as she fussed about the room. "She will make quite an angelof him, and he will make life delightfully easy and pleasantfor the dear, if they only love each other. I don't see how hecan help it, and I do believe he would if the rest of us were out ofthe way."

As everyone was out of the way but herself, Jo began tofeel that she ought to dispose of herself with all speed. Butwhere should she go? And burning to lay herself upon the shrineof sisterly devotion, she sat down to settle that point.

Now, the old sofa was a regular patriarch of a sofa - long,broad, well-cushioned, and low, a trifle shabby, as well it mightbe, for the girls had slept and sprawled on it as babies,fished over the back, rode on the arms, and had menageriesunder it as children, and rested tired heads, dreamed dreams,and listened to tender talk on it as young women. They all lovedit, for it was a family refuge, and one corner had always beenJo's favorite lounging place. Among the many pillows that adornedthe venerable couch was one, hard, round, covered with pricklyhorsehair, and furnished with a knobby button at each end. Thisrepulsive pillow was her especial property, being used as a weaponof defense, a barricade, or a stern preventive of too much slumber.

Laurie knew this pillow well, and had cause to regard it withdeep aversion, having been unmercifully pummeled with it in formerdays when romping was allowed, and now frequently debarred by itfrom the seat he most coveted next to Jo in the sofa corner. If'the sausage' as they called it, stood on end, it was a sign thathe might approach and repose, but if it lay flat across the sofa,woe to man, woman, or child who dared disturb it! That eveningJo forgot to barricade her corner, and had not been in her seatfive minutes, before a massive form appeared beside her, and withboth arms spread over the sofa back, both long legs stretched outbefore him, Laurie exclaimed, with a sigh of satisfaction . . .

"Now, this is filling at the price."

"No slang," snapped Jo, slamming down the pillow. But it wastoo late, there was no room for it, and coasting onto the floor,it disappeared in a most mysterious manner.

"Come, Jo, don't be thorny. After studying himself to askeleton all the week, a fellow deserves petting and ought to getit."

"Beth will pet you. I'm busy."

"No, she's not to be bothered with me, but you like that sortof thing, unless you've suddenly lost your taste for it. Have you?Do you hate your boy, and want to fire pillows at him?"

Anything more wheedlesome than that touching appeal was seldomheard, but Jo quenched 'her boy' by turning on him with a sternquery, "How many bouquets have you sent Miss Randal this week?"

"Not one, upon my word. She's engaged. Now then."

"I'm glad of it, that's one of your foolish extravagances,sending flowers and things to girls for whom you don't care twopins," continued Jo reprovingly.

"Sensible girls for whom I do care whole papers of pins won't let mesend them 'flowers and things', so what can I do? My feelings need a'vent'."

"Mother doesn't approve of flirting even in fun, and you doflirt desperately, Teddy."

"I'd give anything if I could answer, 'So do you'. As I can't,I'll merely say that I don't see any harm in that pleasant littlegame, if all parties understand that it's only play."

"Well, it does look pleasant, but I can't learn how it's done.I've tried, because one feels awkward in company not to do aseverybody else is doing, but I don't seem to get on", said Jo,forgetting to play mentor.

"Take lessons of Amy, she has a regular talent for it."

"Yes, she does it very prettily, and never seems to go toofar. I suppose it's natural to some people to please withouttrying, and others to always say and do the wrong thing in thewrong place."

"I'm glad you can't flirt. It's really refreshing to see asensible, straightforward girl, who can be jolly and kind withoutmaking a fool of herself. Between ourselves, Jo, some of thegirls I know really do go on at such a rate I'm ashamed of them.They don't mean any harm, I'm sure, but if they knew how wefellows talked about them afterward, they'd mend their ways, Ifancy."

"They do the same, and as their tongues are the sharpest,you fellows get the worst of it, for you are as silly as they,every bit. If you behaved properly, they would, but knowingyou like their nonsense, they keep it up, and then you blamethem."

"Much you know about it, ma'am," said Laurie in a superior tone."We don't like romps and flirts, though we may act as ifwe did sometimes. The pretty, modest girls are nevertalked about, except respectfully, among gentleman.Bless your innocent soul! If you could be in my placefor a month you'd see things that would astonish you a trifle.Upon my word, when I see one of those harum-scarum girls,I always want to say with our friend Cock Robin . . .

It was impossible to help laughing at the funny conflictbetween Laurie's chivalrous reluctance to speak ill of womankind,and his very natural dislike of the unfeminine folly ofwhich fashionable society showed him many samples. Jo knewthat 'young Laurence' was regarded as a most eligible partiby worldly mamas, was much smiled upon by their daughters,and flattered enough by ladies of all ages to make a coxcombof him, so she watched him rather jealously, fearinghe would be spoiled, and rejoiced more than she confessedto find that he still believed in modest girls. Returningsuddenly to her admonitory tone, she said, dropping hervoice, "If you must have a 'vent', Teddy, go and devoteyourself to one of the 'pretty, modest girls' whom you dorespect, and not waste your time with the silly ones."

"You really advise it?" and Laurie looked at her withan odd mixture of anxiety and merriment in his face.

"Yes, I do, but you'd better wait till you are throughcollege, on the whole, and be fitting yourself for the placemeantime. You're not half good enough for - well, whoeverthe modest girl may be." and Jo looked a little queer likewise,for a name had almost escaped her.

"That I'm not!" acquiesced Laurie, with an expression ofhumility quite new to him, as he dropped his eyes and absentlywound Jo's apron tassel round his finger.

"Mercy on us, this will never do," thought Jo, addingaloud, "Go and sing to me. I'm dying for some music, andalways like yours."

"I'd rather stay here, thank you."

"Well, you can't, there isn't room. Go and make yourselfuseful, since you are too big to be ornamental. I thought youhated to be tied to a woman's apron string?" retorted Jo,quoting certain rebellious words of his own.

"Ah, that depends on who wears the apron!" and Lauriegave 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 thebonnets of bonnie Dundee," she slipped away to return no moretill the young gentleman departed in high dudgeon.

Jo lay long awake that night, and was just dropping offwhen 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 triedto check her tears.

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

"You can't, there is no cure." There Beth's voice gaveway, and clinging to her sister, she cried so despairinglythat Jo was frightened.

"Where is it? Shall I call Mother?"

"No, no, don't call her, don't tell her. I shall bebetter soon. Lie down here and 'poor' my head. I'll bequiet and go to sleep, indeed I will."

Jo obeyed, but as her hand went softly to and fro acrossBeth's hot forehead and wet eyelids, her heart was very fulland she longed to speak. But young as she was, Jo had learnedthat hearts, like flowers, cannot be rudely handled, but mustopen naturally, so though she believed she knew the cause ofBeth's new pain, she only said, in her tenderest tone, "Doesanything 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 andJo 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 morrowBeth seemed quite herself again, for at eighteen neither headsnor hearts ache long, and a loving word can medicine most ills.

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

"You asked me the other day what my wishes were. I'lltell you one of them, Marmee," she began, as they sat alongtogether. "I want to go away somewhere this winter for achange."

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

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

"Where will you hop?"

"To New York. I had a bright idea yesterday, and this isit. You know Mrs. Kirke wrote to you for some respectableyoung person to teach her children and sew. It's rather hardto 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 isyour friend - the kindest soul that ever lived - and would makethings pleasant for me, I know. Her family is separate fromthe 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 newthings, 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 forthis sudden fancy?"

"No, Mother."

"May I know the others?"

Jo looked up and Jo looked down, then said slowly, withsudden color in her cheeks. "It may be vain and wrong tosay 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 hebegins to care for you?" and Mrs. March looked anxious as sheput the question.

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

"I'm glad of that, Jo."

"Why, please?"

"Because, dear, I don't think you suited to one another. Asfriends you are very happy, and your frequent quarrels soon blowover, 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 mentionhot tempers and strong wills, to get on happily together, in arelation which needs infinite patience and forbearance, as wellas 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 wouldtrouble me sadly to make him unhappy, for I couldn't fall in lovewith 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, withthe look of mingled pleasure, pride, and pain which younggirls wear when speaking of first lovers, "I'm afraid it isso, 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, "HowMrs. Moffat would wonder at your want of management, if sheknew, and how she will rejoice that Annie may still hope."

"Ah, Jo, mothers may differ in their management, but thehope 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 toenjoy your liberty till you tire of it, for only then will youfind that there is something sweeter. Amy is my chief carenow, but her good sense will help her. For Beth, I indulgeno hopes except that she may be well. By the way, she seemsbrighter this last day or two. Have you spoken to her?'

"Yes, she owned she had a trouble, and promised to tellme by-and-by. I said no more, for I think I know it," andJo told her little story.

Mrs. March shook her head, and did not take so romantica view of the case, but looked grave, and repeated her opinionthat 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 tragic.Beth must think I'm going to please myself, as I am, for I can'ttalk about Laurie to her. But she can pet and comfort him afterI'm gone, and so cure him of this romantic notion. He's beenthrough so many little trials of the sort, he's used to it, andwill soon get over his lovelornity."

Jo spoke hopefully, but could not rid herself of the forebodingfear that this 'little trial' would be harder than the others,and that Laurie would not get over his 'lovelornity' as easilyas heretofore.

The plan was talked over in a family council and agreedupon, for Mrs. Kirke gladly accepted Jo, and promised tomake a pleasant home for her. The teaching would renderher independent, and such leisure as she got might be madeprofitable by writing, while the new scenes and society wouldbe both useful and agreeable. Jo liked the prospect and waseager to be gone, for the home nest was growing too narrowfor her restless nature and adventurous spirit. When all wassettled, with fear and trembling she told Laurie, but to hersurprise he took it very quietly. He had been graver thanusual of late, but very pleasant, and when jokingly accusedof 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 fitsshould come on just then, and made her preparations with alightened heart, for Beth seemed more cheerful, and hopedshe was doing the best for all.

"One thing I leave in your especial care," she said, thenight 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'llmiss you sadly."

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

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

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