Chapter 12

CHAPTER XII.

CAMP LAURENCE.

BETH was post-mistress, for, being most at home, she could attend to it regularly, and dearly liked the daily task of unlocking the little door and distributing the mail. One July day she came in with her hands full, and went about the house leaving letters and parcels, like the penny post.

"Here's your posy, mother! Laurie never forgets that," she said, putting the fresh nosegay in the vase that stood in "Marmee's corner," and was kept supplied by the affectionate boy.

"Miss Meg March, one letter, and a glove," continued Beth, delivering the articles to her sister, who sat near her mother, stitching wristbands.

"Why, I left a pair over there, and here is only one," said Meg, looking at the gray cotton glove.

"Didn't you drop the other in the garden?"

"No, I'm sure I didn't; for there was only one in the office."

"I hate to have odd gloves! Never mind, the other may be found. My letter is only a translation of the German song I wanted; I guess Mr. Brooke did it,

for this isn't Laurie's writing."

Mrs. March glanced at Meg, who was looking very

pretty in her gingham morning-gown, with the little

curls blowing about her forehead, and very womanly,

as she sat sewing at her little work-table, full of tidy

white rolls; so, unconscious of the thought in her

mother's mind, she sewed and sung while her fingers

flew, and her mind was busied with girlish fancies as

innocent and fresh as the pansies in her belt, that Mrs.

March smiled, and was satisfied.

"Two letters for Doctor Jo, a book, and a funny old

hat, which covered the whole post-office, stuck

outside," said Beth, laughing, as she went into the study,

where Jo sat writing.

"What a sly fellow Laurie is! I said I wished

bigger hats were the fashion, because I burn my face

every hot day. He said, 'Why mind the fashion?

wear a big hat, and be comfortable!' I said I would,

if I had one, and he has sent me this, to try me; I'll

wear it, for fun, and show him I don't care for the

fashion;" and, hanging the antique broad-brim on a

bust of Plato, Jo read her letters.

One from her mother made her cheeks glow, and

her eyes fill, for it said to her,—

"My dear:

"I write a little word to tell you with how much

satisfaction I watch your efforts to control your

temper. You say nothing about your trials, failures, or

successes, and think, perhaps, that no one sees them

but the Friend whose help you daily ask, if I may trust the well-worn cover of your guide-book, I, too,

have seen them all, and heartily believe in the sincerity

of your resolution, since it begins to bear fruit. Go

on, dear, patiently and bravely, and always believe

that no one sympathizes more tenderly with you than

your loving Mother."

"That does me good! that's worth millions of

money, and pecks of praise. Oh, Marmee, I do try!

I will keep on trying, and not get tired, since I have

you to help me."

Laying her head on her arms, Jo wet her little

romance with a few happy tears, for she had thought

that no one saw and appreciated her efforts to be

good, and this assurance was doubly precious, doubly

encouraging, because unexpected, and from the person

whose commendation she most valued. Feeling

stronger than ever to meet and subdue her Apollyon,

she pinned the note inside her frock, as a shield and a

reminder, lest she be taken unaware, and proceeded

to open her other letter, quite ready for either good or

bad news. In a big, dashing hand, Laurie wrote,—

"Dear Jo,

What ho!

Some English girls and boys are coming to see me

to-morrow, and I want to have a jolly time. If it's

fine, I'm going to pitch my tent in Longmeadow, and

row up the whole crew to lunch and croquet;—have

a fire, make messes, gypsy fashion, and all sorts of

larks. They are nice people, and like such things.

Brooke will go, to keep us boys steady, and Kate

Vaughn will play propriety for the girls. I want you all to come; can't let Beth off, at any price, and

nobody shall worry her. Don't bother about rations,—I'll see to that, and everything else,—only do come,

there's a good fellow!

"In a tearing hurry,

Yours ever, Laurie."

"Here's richness!" cried Jo, flying in to tell the

news to Meg. "Of course we can go, mother! it will

be such a help to Laurie, for I can row, and Meg see

to the lunch, and the children be useful some way."

"I hope the Vaughn's are not fine, grown-up people.

Do you know anything about them, Jo?" asked Meg.

"Only that there are four of them. Kate is older

than you, Fred and Frank (twins) about my age, and

a little girl (Grace), who is nine or ten. Laurie knew

them abroad, and liked the boys; I fancied, from the

way he primmed up his mouth in speaking of her,

that he didn't admire Kate much."

"I'm so glad my French print is clean, it's just the

thing, and so becoming!" observed Meg,

complacently. "Have you anything decent, Jo?"

"Scarlet and gray boating suit, good enough for

me; I shall row and tramp about, so I don't want

any starch to think of. You'll come, Betty?"

"If you won't let any of the boys talk to me."

"Not a boy!"

"I like to please Laurie; and I'm not afraid of Mr.

Brooke, he is so kind; but I don't want to play, or

sing, or say anything. I'll work hard, and not trouble

any one; and you'll take care of me, Jo, so I'll go."

"That's my good girl; you do try to fight off your shyness, and I love you for it; fighting faults isn't

easy, as I know; and a cheery word kind of gives a

lift. Thank you, mother," and Jo gave the thin

cheek a grateful kiss, more precious to Mrs. March

than if it had given her back the rosy roundness of

her youth.

"I had a box of chocolate drops, and the picture I

wanted to copy," said Amy, showing her mail.

"And I got a note from Mr. Laurence, asking me

to come over and play to him to-night, before the

lamps are lighted, and I shall go," added Beth, whose

friendship with the old gentleman prospered finely.

"Now let's fly round, and do double duty today, so

that we can play to-morrow with free minds," said Jo,

preparing to replace her pen with a broom.

When the sun peeped into the girls' room early next

morning, to promise them a fine day, he saw a comical

sight. Each had made such preparation for the fête

as seemed necessary and proper. Meg had an extra

row of little curl papers across her forehead, Jo had

copiously anointed her afflicted face with cold cream,

Beth had taken Joanna to bed with her to atone for

the approaching separation, and Amy had capped the

climax by putting a clothes-pin on her nose, to uplift

the offending feature. It was one of the kind artists

use to hold the paper on their drawing-boards;

therefore, quite appropriate and effective for the purpose to

which it was now put. This funny spectacle appeared

to amuse the sun, for he burst out with such radiance

that Jo woke up, and roused all her sisters by a hearty

laugh at Amy's ornament.

Sunshine and laughter were good omens for a pleasure party, and soon a lively bustle began in both

houses. Beth, who was ready first, kept reporting

what went on next door, and enlivened her sisters'

toilets by frequent telegrams from the window.

"There goes the man with the tent! I see Mrs.

Barker doing up the lunch, in a hamper, and a great

basket. Now Mr. Laurence is looking up at the

sky, and the weathercock; I wish he would go, too!

There's Laurie looking like a sailor,—nice boy! Oh,

mercy me! here's a carriage full of people—a tall

lady, a little girl, and two dreadful boys. One is

lame; poor thing, he's got a crutch! Laurie didn't tell

us that. Be quick, girls! it's getting late. Why, there

is Ned Moftat, I do declare. Look, Meg! isn't that the

man who bowed to you one day, when we were shopping?"

"So it is; how queer that he should come! I

thought he was at the Mountains. There is Sallie;

I'm glad she got back in time. Am I all right, Jo?"

cried Meg, in a flutter.

"A regular daisy; hold up your dress, and put your

hat straight; it looks sentimental tipped that way, and

will fly off at the first puff. Now, then, come on!"

"Oh, oh, Jo! you ain't going to wear that awful

hat? It's too absurd! You shall not make a guy of

yourself," remonstrated Meg, as Jo tied down, with a

red ribbon, the broad-brimmed, old-fashioned Leghorn

Laurie had sent for a joke.

"I just will, though! it's capital; so shady, light, and

big. It will make fun; and I don't mind being a guy,

if I'm comfortable." With that Jo marched straight

away, and the rest followed; a bright little band of sisters, all looking their best, in summer suits, with

happy faces, under the jaunty hat-brims.

Laurie ran to meet, and present them to his friends,

in the most cordial manner. The lawn was the

reception room, and for several minutes a lively scene was

enacted there. Meg was grateful to see that Miss

Kate, though twenty, was dressed with a simplicity

which American girls would do well to imitate; and

she was much flattered by Mr. Ned's assurances that

he came especially to see her. Jo understood why

Laurie "primmed up his mouth" when speaking of

Kate, for that young lady had a

stand-off-don't-touch-me air, which contrasted strongly with the free and easy

demeanor of the other girls. Beth took an

observation of the new boys, and decided that the lame one

was not "dreadful," but gentle and feeble, and she

would be kind to him, on that account. Amy found

Grace a well-mannered, merry little person; and, after

staring dumbly at one another for a few minutes, they

suddenly became very good friends.

Tents, lunch, and croquet utensils having been sent

on beforehand, the party was soon embarked, and the

two boats pushed off together, leaving Mr. Laurence

waving his hat on the shore. Laurie and Jo rowed

one boat; Mr. Brooke and Ned the other; while Fred

Vaughn, the riotous twin, did his best to upset both,

by paddling about in a wherry, like a disturbed

waterbug. Jo's funny hat deserved a vote of thanks, for it

was of general utility; it broke the ice in the

beginning, by producing a laugh; it created quite a

refreshing breeze, flapping to and fro, as she rowed, and

would make an excellent umbrella for the whole party, if a shower came up, she said. Kate looked rather

amazed at Jo's proceedings, especially as she exclaimed

"Christopher Columbus!" when she lost her oar; and

Laurie said, "My dear fellow, did I hurt you?" when

he tripped over her feet in taking his place. But

after putting up her glass to examine the queer girl

several times, Miss Kate decided that she was "odd,

but rather clever," and smiled upon her from afar.

Meg, in the other boat, was delightfully situated, face

to face with the rowers, who both admired the

prospect, and feathered their oars with uncommon "skill

and dexterity." Mr. Brooke was a grave, silent young

man, with handsome brown eyes, and a pleasant

voice. Meg liked his quiet manners, and considered

him a walking encyclopaedia of useful knowledge.

He never talked to her much; but he looked at her a

good deal, and she felt sure that he did not regard her

with aversion. Ned being in college, of course put

on all the airs which Freshmen think it their bounden

duty to assume; he was not very wise, but very

good-natured and merry, and, altogether, an excellent

person to carry on a picnic. Sallie Gardiner was

absorbed in keeping her white pique dress clean, and

chattering with the ubiquitous Fred, who kept Beth in

constant terror by his pranks.

It was not far to Longmeadow; but the tent was

pitched, and the wickets down, by the time they

arrived. A pleasant green field, with three

wide-spreading oaks in the middle, and a smooth strip of

turf for croquet.

"Welcome to Camp Laurence!" said the young

host, as they landed, with exclamations of delight. "Brooke is commander-in-chief; I am

commissary-general; the other fellows are staff-officers; and you,

ladies, are company. The tent is for your especial

benefit, and that oak is your drawing-room; this is

the mess-room, and the third is the camp kitchen.

Now let's have a game before it gets hot, and then

we'll see about dinner."

Frank, Beth, Amy, and Grace, sat down to watch

the game played by the other eight. Mr. Brooke

chose Meg, Kate, and Fred; Laurie took Sallie, Jo,

and Ned. The Englishers played well; but the

Americans played better, and contested every inch of

the ground as strongly as if the spirit of '76 inspired

them. Jo and Fred had several skirmishes, and once

narrowly escaped high words. Jo was through the

last wicket, and had missed the stroke, which failure

ruffled her a good deal. Fred was close behind her,

and his turn came before hers; he gave a stroke, his

ball hit the wicket, and stopped an inch on the wrong

side. No one was very near; and, running up to

examine, he gave it a sly nudge with his toe, which put

it just an inch on the right side.

"I'm through! now, Miss Jo, I'll settle you, and

get in first," cried the young gentleman, swinging his

mallet for another blow.

"You pushed it; I saw you; it's my turn now,"

said Jo, sharply.

"Upon my word I didn't move it! it rolled a bit,

perhaps, but that is allowed; so stand off, please, and

let me have a go at the stake."

"We don't cheat in America; but you can, if you

choose," said Jo, angrily.

"Yankees are a deal the most tricky, everybody

knows. There you go," returned Fred, croqueting

her ball far away.

Jo opened her lips to say something rude; but

checked herself in time, colored up to her forehead,

and stood a minute, hammering down a wicket with

all her might, while Fred hit the stake, and declared

himself out, with much exultation. She went off to

get her ball, and was a long time finding it, among

the bushes; but she came back, looking cool and

quiet, and waited her turn patiently. It took several

strokes to regain the place she had lost; and, when she

got there, the other side had nearly won, for Kate's

ball was the last but one, and lay near the stake.

"By George, it's all up with us! Good-by, Kate;

Miss Jo owes me one, so you are finished," cried Fred,

excitedly, as they all drew near to see the finish.

"Yankees have a trick of being generous to their

enemies," said Jo, with a look that made the lad

redden, "especially when they beat them," she added,

as, leaving Kate's ball untouched, she won the game

by a clever stroke.

Laurie threw up his hat; then remembered that it

wouldn't do to exult over the defeat of his guests, and

stopped in the middle of a cheer to whisper to his

friend,—

"Good for you, Jo! he did cheat, I saw him; we

can't tell him so, but he won't do it again, take my

word for it."

Meg drew her aside, under pretence of pinning up

a loose braid, and said, approvingly,—

"It was dreadfully provoking; but you kept your

temper, and I'm so glad, Jo."

"Don't praise me, Meg, for I could box his ears

this minute. I should certainly have boiled over, if

I hadn't stayed among the nettles till I got my rage

under enough to hold my tongue. It's simmering

now, so I hope he'll keep out of my way," returned

Jo, biting her lips, as she glowered at Fred from

under her big hat.

"Time for lunch," said Mr. Brooke, looking at his

watch. "Commisary-general, will you make the fire,

and get water, while Miss March, Miss Sallie, and I

spread the table. Who can make good coffee?"

"Jo can," said Meg, glad to recommend her sister.

So Jo, feeling that her late lessons in cookery were

to do her honor, went to preside over the coffee-pot,

while the children collected dry sticks, and the boys

made a fire, and got water from a spring near by.

Miss Kate sketched, and Frank talked to Beth, who

was making little mats of braided rushes, to serve as

plates.

The commander-in-chief and his aids soon spread

the table-cloth with an inviting array of eatables and

drinkables, prettily decorated with green leaves. Jo

announced that the coffee was ready, and every one

settled themselves to a hearty meal; for youth is

seldom dyspeptic, and exercise develops wholesome

appetites. A very merry lunch it was; for everything

seemed fresh and funny, and frequent peals of laughter

startled a venerable horse, who fed near by. There

was a pleasing inequality in the table, which produced

many mishaps to cups and plates; acorns dropped into the milk, little black ants partook of the

refreshments without being invited, and fuzzy caterpillars

swung down from the tree, to see what was going on.

Three white-headed children peeped over the fence,

and an objectionable dog barked at them from the

other side of the river, with all his might and main.

"There's salt, here, if you prefer it," said Laurie,

as he handed Jo a saucer of berries.

"Thank you; I prefer spiders," she replied, fishing

up two unwary little ones, who had gone to a creamy

death. "How dare you remind me of that horrid

dinner-party, when yours is so nice in every way?"

added Jo, as they both laughed, and ate out of one

plate, the china having run short.

"I had an uncommonly good time that day, and

haven't got over it yet. This is no credit to me, you

know; I don't do anything; it's you, and Meg, and

Brooke, who make it go, and I'm no end obliged to

you. What shall we do when we can't eat any more?"

asked Laurie, feeling that his trump card had been

played when lunch was over.

"Have games, till it's cooler. I brought 'Authors,'

and I dare say Miss Kate knows something new and

nice. Go and ask her; she's company, and you ought

to stay with her more."

"Aren't you company, too? I thought she'd suit

Brooke; but he keeps talking to Meg, and Kate just

stares at them through that ridiculous glass of hers.

I'm going, so you needn't try to preach propriety, for

you can't do it, Jo."

Miss Kate did know several new games; and as

the girls would not, and the boys could not, eat any more, they all adjourned to the drawing-room, to play

"Rigmarole."

"One person begins a story, any nonsense you like,

and tells as long as they please, only taking care to

stop short at some exciting point, when the next takes

it up, and does the same. It's very funny, when well

done, and makes a perfect jumble of tragical comical

stuff to laugh over. Please start it, Mr. Brooke," said

Kate, with a commanding gesture, which surprised

Meg, who treated the tutor with as much respect as

any other gentleman.

Lying on the grass, at the feet of the two young

ladies, Mr. Brooke obediently began the story, with

the handsome brown eyes steadily fixed upon the

sunshiny river.

"Once on a time, a knight went out into the world

to seek his fortune, for he had nothing but his sword

and his shield. He travelled a long while, nearly

eight-and-twenty years, and had a hard time of it, till

he came to the palace of a good old king, who had

offered a reward to any one who would tame and train

a fine, but unbroken colt, of which he was very fond.

The knight agreed to try, and got on slowly, but surely;

for the colt was a gallant fellow, and soon learned to

love his new master, though he was freakish and wild.

Every day, when he gave his lessons to this pet of the

king's, the knight rode him through the city; and, as

he rode, he looked everwhere for a certain beautiful

face, which he had seen many times in his dreams,

but never found. One day, as he went prancing down

a quiet street, he saw at the window of a ruinous

castle the lovely face. He was delighted, inquired who lived in this old castle, and was told that several

captive princesses were kept there by a spell, and

spun all day to lay up money to buy their liberty.

The knight wished intensely that he could free them;

but he was poor, and could only go by each day,

watching for the sweet face, and longing to see it out

in the sunshine. At last, he resolved to get into the

castle, and ask how he could help them. He went

and knocked; the great door flew open, and he

beheld—"

"A ravishingly lovely lady, who exclaimed, with a

cry of rapture, 'At last! at last!'" continued Kate,

who had read French novels, and admired the style.

"''Tis she!' cried Count Gustave, and fell at her feet

in an ecstasy of joy. 'Oh, rise!' she said, extending a

hand of marble fairness. 'Never! till you tell me

how I may rescue you,' swore the knight, still

kneeling. 'Alas, my cruel fate condemns me to remain

here till my tyrant is destroyed.' 'Where is the

villain?' 'In the mauve salon; go, brave heart, and

save me from despair.' 'I obey, and return victorious

or dead!' With these thrilling words he rushed away,

and, flinging open the door of the mauve salon, was

about to enter, when he received—"

"A stunning blow from the big Greek lexicon,

which an old fellow in a black gown fired at him,"

said Ned. "Instantly Sir What's-his-name recovered

himself, pitched the tyrant out of the window, and

turned to join the lady, victorious, but with a bump

on his brow; found the door locked, tore up the

curtains, make a rope ladder, got half-way down when

ladder broke, and he went head first into the moat, sixty feet below. Could swim like a duck, paddled

round the castle till he came to a little door guarded

by two stout fellows; knocked their heads together

till they cracked like a couple of nuts, then, by a

trifling exertion of his prodigious strength, he smashed

in the door, went up a pair of stone steps covered

with dust a foot thick, toads as big as your fist, and

spiders that would frighten you into hysterics, Miss

March. At the top of these steps he came plump

upon a sight that took his breath away and chilled his

blood—"

"A tall figure, all in white, with a veil over its face,

and a lamp in its wasted hand," went on Meg. "It

beckoned, gliding noiselessly before him down a

corridor as dark and cold as any tomb. Shadowy effigies

in armor stood on either side, a dead silence reigned,

the lamp burned blue, and the ghostly figure ever and

anon turned its face toward him, showing the glitter

of awful eyes through its white veil. They reached a

curtained door, behind which sounded lovely music;

he sprang forward to enter, but the spectre plucked

him back, and waved, threateningly, before him a—"

"Snuff-box," said Jo, in a sepulchral tone, which

convulsed the audience. "'Thankee,' said the knight,

politely, as he took a pinch, and sneezed seven times

so violently that his head fell off. 'Ha! ha!' laughed

the ghost; and, having peeped through the keyhole at

the princesses spinning away for dear life, the evil

spirit picked up her victim and put him in a large tin

box, where there were eleven other knights packed

together without their heads, like sardines, who all

rose and began to—"

"Dance a hornpipe," cut in Fred, as Jo paused for

breath; "and, as they danced, the rubbishy old castle

turned to a man-of-war in full sail. 'Up with the jib,

reef the tops'l halliards, helm hard a lee, and man

the guns,' roared the captain, as a Portuguese pirate

hove in sight, with a flag black as ink flying from her

foremast. 'Go in and win my hearties,' says the

captain; and a tremendous fight begun. Of course the

British beat—they always do; and, having taken the

pirate captain prisoner, sailed slap over the schooner,

whose decks were piled with dead, and whose

leescuppers ran blood, for the order had been 'Cutlasses,

and die hard.' 'Bosen's mate, take a bight of the

flying jib sheet, and start this villain if he don't confess

his sins double quick,' said the British captain. The

Portuguese held his tongue like a brick, and walked

the plank, while the jolly tars cheered like mad. But

the sly dog dived, came up under the man-of-war,

scuttled her, and down she went, with all sail set,

'To the bottom of the sea, sea, sea,' where—"

"Oh, gracious! what shall I say?" cried Sallie, as

Fred ended his rigmarole, in which he had jumbled

together, pell-mell, nautical phrases and facts, out of

one of his favorite books. "Well, they went to the

bottom, and a nice mermaid welcomed them, but

was much grieved on finding the box of headless

knights, and kindly pickled them in brine, hoping to

discover the mystery about them; for, being a woman,

she was curious. By and by a diver came down, and

the mermaid said, 'I'll give you this box of pearls

if you can take it up;' for she wanted to restore the

poor things to life, and couldn't raise the heavy load herself. So the diver hoisted it up, and was much

disappointed, on opening it, to find no pearls. He left

it in a great lonely field, where it was found by a—"

"Little goose-girl, who kept a hundred fat geese in

the field," said Amy, when Sallie's invention gave out.

"The little girl was sorry for them, and asked an old

woman what she should do to help them. 'Your

geese will tell you, they know everything,' said the old

woman. So she asked what she should use for new

heads, since the old ones were lost, and all the geese

opened their hundred mouths, and screamed—"

"'Cabbages!' continued Laurie, promptly. 'Just

the thing,' said the girl, and ran to get twelve fine

ones from her garden. She put them on, the knights

revived at once, thanked her, and went on their way

rejoicing, never knowing the difference, for there were

so many other heads like them in the world, that no

one thought anything of it. The knight in whom I'm

interested went back to find the pretty face, and

learned that the princesses had spun themselves free,

and all gone to be married, but one. He was in a

great state of mind at that; and, mounting the colt,

who stood by him through thick and thin, rushed to

the castle to see which was left. Peeping over the

hedge, he saw the queen of his affections picking

flowers in her garden. 'Will you give me a rose?'

said he. 'You must come and get it; I can't come to

you; it isn't proper,' said she, as sweet as honey. He

tried to climb over the hedge, but it seemed to grow

higher and higher; then he tried to push through, but

it grew thicker and thicker, and he was in despair.

So he patiently broke twig after twig, till he had made a little hole, through which he peeped, saying,

imploringly, 'Let me in! let me in!' But the pretty

princess did not seem to understand, for she picked

her roses quietly, and left him to fight his way in.

Whether he did or not, Frank will tell you."

"I can't; I'm not playing, I never do," said Frank,

dismayed at the sentimental predicament out of which

he was to rescue the absurd couple. Beth had

disappeared behind Jo, and Grace was asleep.

"So the poor knight is to be left sticking in the

hedge, is he?" asked Mr. Brooke, still watching the

river, and playing with the wild rose in his button-hole.

"I guess the princess gave him a posy, and opened

the gate, after awhile," said Laurie, smiling to himself,

as he threw acorns at his tutor.

"What a piece of nonsense we have made! With

practice we might do something quite clever. Do

you know 'Truth?'" asked Sallie, after they had

laughed over their story.

"I hope so," said Meg, soberly.

"The game, I mean?"

"What is it?" said Fred.

"Why, you pile up your hands, choose a number,

and draw out in turn, and the person who draws at

the number has to answer truly any questions put by

the rest. It's great fun."

"Let's try it," said Jo, who liked new experiments.

Miss Kate and Mr. Brooke, Meg and Ned, declined;

but Fred, Sallie, Jo and Laurie piled and drew; and

the lot fell to Laurie.

"Who are your heroes?" asked Jo.

"Grandfather and Napoleon."

"What lady do you think prettiest?" said Sallie.

"Margaret."

"Which do you like best?" from Fred.

"Jo, of course."

"What silly questions you ask!" and Jo gave a

disdainful shrug as the rest laughed at Laurie's

matter-of-fact tone.

"Try again; Truth isn't a bad game," said Fred.

"It's a very good one for you," retorted Jo, in a

low voice.

Her turn came next.

"What is your greatest fault?" asked Fred, by way

of testing in her the virtue he lacked himself.

"A quick temper."

"What do you most wish for?" said Laurie.

"A pair of boot-lacings," returned Jo, guessing

and defeating his purpose.

"Not a true answer; you must say what you really

do want most."

"Genius; don't you wish you could give it to me,

Laurie?" and she slyly smiled in his disappointed face.

"What virtues do you most admire in a man?"

asked Sallie.

"Courage and honesty."

"Now my turn," said Fred, as his hand came last.

"Let's give it to him," whispered Laurie to Jo, who

nodded, and asked at once,—

"Didn't you cheat at croquet?"

"Well, yes, a little bit."

"Good! Didn't you take your story out of 'The

Sea Lion?'" said Laurie.

"Rather."

"Don't you think the English nation perfect in

every respect?" asked Sallie.

"I should be ashamed of myself if I didn't."

"He's a true John Bull. Now, Miss Sallie, you

shall have a chance without waiting to draw. I'll

harrow up your feelings first by asking if you don't

think you are something of a flirt," said Laurie, as Jo

nodded to Fred, as a sign that peace was declared.

"You impertinent boy! of course I'm not,"

exclaimed Sallie, with an air that proved the contrary.

"What do you hate most?" asked Fred.

"Spiders and rice pudding."

"What do you like best?" asked Jo.

"Dancing and French gloves."

"Well, I think Truth is a very silly play; let's have

a sensible game of Authors, to refresh our minds,"

proposed Jo.

Ned, Frank, and the little girls joined in this, and,

while it went on, the three elders sat apart, talking.

Miss Kate took out her sketch again, and Margaret

watched her, while Mr. Brooke lay on the grass, with

a book, which he did not read.

"How beautifully you do it; I wish I could draw,"

said Meg, with mingled admiration and regret in her

voice.

"Why don't you learn? I should think you had

taste and talent for it," replied Miss Kate, graciously.

"I haven't time."

"Your mamma prefers other accomplishments, I

fancy. So did mine; but I proved to her that I had

talent, by taking a few lessons privately, and then she was quite willing I should go on. Can't you do the

same with your governess?"

"I have none."

"I forgot; young ladies in America go to school

more than with us. Very fine schools they are, too,

papa says. You go to a private one, I suppose?"

"I don't go at all; I am a governess myself."

"Oh, indeed!" said Miss Kate; but she might as

well have said, "Dear me, how dreadful!" for her

tone implied it, and something in her face made Meg

color, and wish she had not been so frank.

Mr. Brooke looked up, and said, quickly, "Young

ladies in America love independence as much as their

ancestors did, and are admired and respected for

supporting themselves."

"Oh, yes; of course! it's very nice and proper in

them to do so. We have many most respectable and

worthy young women, who do the same; and are

employed by the nobility, because, being the daughters

of gentlemen, they are both well-bred and

accomplished, you know," said Miss Kate, in a patronizing

tone, that hurt Meg's pride, and made her work seem

not only more distasteful, but degrading.

"Did the German song suit, Miss March?" inquired

Mr. Brooke, breaking an awkward pause.

"Oh, yes! it was very sweet, and I'm much obliged

to whoever translated it for me;" and Meg's downcast

face brightened as she spoke.

"Don't you read German?" asked Miss Kate, with

a look of surprise.

"Not very well. My father, who taught me, is away, and I don't get on very fast alone, for I've no

one to correct my pronunciation."

"Try a little now; here is Schiller's 'Mary Stuart,'

and a tutor who loves to teach," and Mr. Brooke laid

his book on her lap, with an inviting smile.

"It's so hard, I'm afraid to try," said Meg, grateful,

but bashful in the presence of the accomplished young

lady beside her.

"I'll read a bit, to encourage you;" and Miss Kate

read one of the most beautiful passages, in a perfectly

correct, but perfectly expressionless, manner.

Mr Brooke made no comment, as she returned the

book to Meg, who said, innocently,—

"I thought it was poetry."

"Some of it is; try this passage."

There was a queer smile about Mr. Brooke's mouth,

as he opened at poor Mary's lament.

Meg, obediently following the long grass-blade

which her new tutor used to point with, read, slowly

and timidly, unconsciously making poetry of the hard

words, by the soft intonation of her musical voice.

Down the page went the green guide, and presently,

forgetting her listener in the beauty of the sad scene,

Meg read as if alone, giving a little touch of tragedy

to the words of the unhappy queen. If she had seen

the brown eyes then, she would have stopped short;

but she never looked up, and the lesson was not spoilt

for her.

"Very well, indeed!" said Mr. Brooke, as she

paused, quite ignoring her many mistakes, and looking

as if he did, indeed, "love to teach."

Miss Kate put up her glass, and, having taken a survey of the little tableau before her, shut her

sketchbook, saying, with condescension,—

"You've a nice accent, and, in time, will be a clever

reader. I advise you to learn, for German is a

valuable accomplishment to teachers. I must look after

Grace, she is romping;" and Miss Kate strolled away,

adding to herself, with a shrug, "I didn't come to

chaperone a governess, though she is young and

pretty. What odd people these Yankees are! I'm

afraid Laurie will be quite spoilt among them."

"I forgot that English people rather turn up their

noses at governesses, and don't treat them as we do,"

said Meg, looking after the retreating figure with an

annoyed expression.

"Tutors, also, have rather a hard time of it there,

as I know to my sorrow. There's no place like

America for us workers, Miss Margaret," and Mr.

Brooke looked so contented and cheerful, that Meg

was ashamed to lament her hard lot.

"I'm glad I live in it, then. I don't like my work,

but I get a good deal of satisfaction out of it, after all,

so I won't complain; I only wish I liked teaching as

you do."

"I think you would, if you had Laurie for a pupil.

I shall be very sorry to lose him next year," said Mr.

Brooke, busily punching holes in the turf.

"Going to college, I suppose?" Meg's lips asked

that question, but her eyes added, "And what becomes

of you?"

"Yes; it's high time he went, for he is nearly ready,

and as soon as he is off I shall turn soldier."

"I'm glad of that!" exclaimed Meg; "I should think every young man would want to go; though

it is hard for the mothers and sisters, who stay at

home," she added, sorrowfully.

"I have neither, and very few friends, to care

whether I live or die," said Mr. Brooke, rather bitterly,

as he absently put the dead rose in the hole he had

made, and covered it up, like a little grave.

"Laurie and his grandfather would care a great

deal, and we should all be very sorry to have any

harm happen to you," said, Meg, heartily.

"Thank you; that sounds pleasant," began Mr.

Brooke, looking cheerful again; but, before he could

finish his speech, Ned, mounted on the old horse,

came lumbering up, to display his equestrian skill

before the young ladies, and there was no more quiet

that day.

"Don't you love to ride?" asked Grace of Amy, as

they stood resting, after a race round the field with

the others, led by Ned.

"I dote upon it; my sister Meg used to ride, when

papa was rich, but we don't keep any horses now,—except Ellen Tree," added Amy, laughing.

"Tell me about Ellen Tree; is it a donkey?" asked

Grace, curiously.

"Why, you see, Jo is crazy about horses, and so am

I, but we've only got an old side-saddle, and no horse.

Out in our garden is an apple-tree, that has a nice

low branch; so I, put the saddle on it, fixed some

reins on the part that turns up, and we bounce away

on Ellen Tree whenever we like."

"How funny!" laughed Grace. "I have a pony

at home, and ride nearly every day in the park, with Fred and Kate; it's very nice, for my friends go too,

and the Row is full of ladies and gentlemen."

"Dear, how charming! I hope I shall go abroad,

some day; but I'd rather go to Rome than the Row,"

said Amy, who had not the remotest idea what the

Row was, and wouldn't have asked for the world.

Frank, sitting just behind the little girls, heard what

they were saying, and pushed his crutch away from

him with an impatient gesture, as he watched the

active lads going through all sorts of comical

gymnastics. Beth, who was collecting the scattered

Author-cards, looked up, and said, in her shy yet friendly

way,—

"I'm afraid you are tired; can I do anything for

you?"

"Talk to me, please; it's dull, sitting by myself,"

answered Frank, who had evidently been used to

being made much of at home.

If he had asked her to deliver a Latin oration, it

would not have seemed a more impossible task to

bashful Beth; but there was no place to run to, no Jo

to hide behind now, and the poor boy looked so

wistfully at her, that she bravely resolved to try.

"What do you like to talk about?" she asked,

fumbling over the cards, and dropping half as she

tried to tie them up.

"Well, I like to hear about cricket, and boating,

and hunting," said Frank, who had not yet learned to

suit his amusements to his strength.

"My heart! whatever shall I do! I don't know

anything about them," thought Beth; and, forgetting

the boy's misfortune in her flurry, she said, hoping to make him talk, "I never saw any hunting, but I

suppose you know all about it."

"I did once; but I'll never hunt again, for I got

hurt leaping a confounded five-barred gate; so there's

no more horses and hounds for me," said Frank, with

a sigh that made Beth hate herself for her innocent

blunder.

"Your deer are much prettier than our ugly

buffaloes," she said, turning to the prairies for help, and

feeling glad that she had read one of the boys' books

in which Jo delighted.

Buffaloes proved soothing and satisfactory; and, in

her eagerness to amuse another, Beth forgot herself,

and was quite unconscious of her sister's surprise and

delight at the unusual spectacle of Beth talking away

to one of the dreadful boys, against whom she had

begged protection.

"Bless her heart! She pities him, so she is good

to him," said Jo, beaming at her from the

croquet-ground.

"I always said she was a little saint," added Meg,

as if there could be no further doubt of it.

"I haven't heard Frank laugh so much for ever so

long," said Grace to Amy, as they sat discussing dolls,

and making tea-sets out of the acorn-cups.

"My sister Beth is a very fastidious girl, when she

likes to be," said Amy, well pleased at Beth's success.

She meant "fascinating," but, as Grace didn't know the

exact meaning of either word, "fastidious" sounded

well, and made a good impression.

An impromptu circus, fox and geese, and an

amicable game of croquet, finished the afternoon. At sunset the tent was struck, hampers packed, wickets pulled up, boats loaded, and the whole party floated down the river, singing at the tops of their voices. Ned, getting sentimental, warbled a serenade with the pensive refrain,—

"Alone, alone, ah! woe, alone,"

and at the lines—

"We each are young, we each have a heart,

Oh, why should we stand thus coldly apart?"

he looked at Meg with such a lackadaisical expression, that she laughed outright, and spoilt his song.

"How can you be so cruel to me?" he whispered, under cover of a lively chorus; "you've kept close to that starched-up English woman all day, and now you snub me."

"I didn't mean to; but you looked so funny I really couldn't help it," replied Meg, passing over the first part of his reproach; for it was quite true that she had shunned him, remembering the Moffat party and the talk after it.

Ned was offended, and turned to Sallie for consolation, saying to her, rather pettishly, "There isn't a bit of flirt in that girl, is there?"

"Not a particle; but she's a dear," returned Sallie, defending her friend even while confessing her shortcomings.

"She's not a stricken deer, any-way," said Ned, trying to be witty, and succeeding as well as very young gentlemen usually do.

On the lawn where it had gathered, the little party separated with cordial good-nights and good-byes, for the Vaughns were going to Canada. As the four sisters went home through the garden. Miss Kate looked after them, saying, without the patronizing tone in her voice, "In spite of their demonstrative manners, American girls are very nice when one knows them."

"I quite agree with you," said Mr. Brooke.