They were soon ready, and the procession set out. Fortunately it was early,and they went through back streets, so few people saw them, and no one laughed at the queer party.
A poor, bare, miserable room it was, with broken windows, no fire, ragged bedclothes, a sick mother,wailing baby, and a group of pale, hungry children cuddled under one old quilt, trying to keep warm.
How the big eyes stared and the blue lips smiled as the girls went in.
“Ach, mein Gott!It is good angels come to us!” said the poor woman, crying for joy.
“Funny angels in hoods and mittens,” said Jo, and set them to laughing.
In a few minutes it really did seem as if kind spirits had been at work there. Hannah,who had carried wood, made a fire, and stopped up the broken panes with old hats and her own cloak.Mrs. March gave the mother tea and gruel, and comforted her with promises of help,while she dressed the little baby as tenderly as if it had been her own.The girls meantime spread the table, set the children round the fire,and fed them like so many hungry birds, laughing, talking,and trying to understand the funny broken English.
“Das ist gut!” “Die Engel-kinder!” cried the poor things as they ate and warmed their purple hands at the comfortable blaze.The girls had never been called angel children before, and thought it very agreeable,especially Jo, who had been considered a ‘Sancho’ ever since she was born.That was a very happy breakfast, though they didn’t get any of it. And when they went away,leaving comfort behind, I think there were not in all the city four merrier people than the hungry little girls who gave away their breakfasts and contented themselves with bread and milk on Christmas morning.
“That’s loving our neighbor better than ourselves, and I like it,” said Meg,as they set out their presents while their mother was upstairs collecting clothes for the poor Hummels.
Not a very splendid show, but there was a great deal of love done up in the few little bundles,and the tall vase of red roses, white chrysanthemums, and trailing vines,which stood in the middle, gave quite an elegant air to the table.
“She’s coming!Strike up, Beth!Open the door, Amy!Three cheers for Marmee!” cried Jo, prancing about while Meg went to conduct Mother to the seat of honor.
Beth played her gayest march, Amy threw open the door, and Meg enacted escort with great dignity.Mrs. March was both surprised and touched,and smiled with her eyes full as she examined her presents and read the little notes which accompanied them.The slippers went on at once, a new handkerchief was slipped into her pocket,well scented with Amy’s cologne, the rose was fastened in her bosom,and the nice gloves were pronounced a perfect fit.
There was a good deal of laughing and kissing and explaining, in the simple,loving fashion which makes these home festivals so pleasant at the time,so sweet to remember long afterward, and then all fell to work.
The morning charities and ceremonies took so much time that the rest of the day was devoted to preparations for the evening festivities.Being still too young to go often to the theater,and not rich enough to afford any great outlay for private performances,the girls put their wits to work, and necessity being the mother of invention,made whatever they needed. Very clever were some of their productions, pasteboard guitars,antique lamps made of old-fashioned butter boats covered with silver paper,gorgeous robes of old cotton, glittering with tin spangles from a pickle factory,and armor covered with the same useful diamond shaped bits left in sheets when the lids of preserve pots were cut out.The big chamber was the scene of many innocent revels.
No gentleman were admitted, so Jo played male parts to her heart’s content and took immense satisfaction in a pair of russet leather boots given her by a friend, who knew a lady who knew an actor. These boots, an old foil, and a slashed doublet once used by an artist for some picture, were Jo’s chief treasures and appeared on all occasions. The smallness of the company made it necessary for the two principal actors to take several parts apiece, and they certainly deserved some credit for the hard work they did in learning three or four different parts, whisking in and out of various costumes, and managing the stage besides. It was excellent drill for their memories, a harmless amusement, and employed many hours which otherwise would have been idle, lonely, or spent in less profitable society.
On Christmas night, a dozen girls piled onto the bed which was the dress circle,and sat before the blue and yellow chintz curtains in a most flattering state of expectancy.There was a good deal of rustling and whispering behind the curtain, a trifle of lamp smoke,and an occasional giggle from Amy, who was apt to get hysterical in the excitement of the moment.Presently a bell sounded, the curtains flew apart, and the _operatic tragedy_ began.
“A gloomy wood,” according to the one playbill, was represented by a few shrubs in pots,green baize on the floor, and a cave in the distance.This cave was made with a clothes horse for a roof, bureaus for walls,and in it was a small furnace in full blast,with a black pot on it and an old witch bending over it.The stage was dark and the glow of the furnace had a fine effect,especially as real steam issued from the kettle when the witch took off the cover.A moment was allowed for the first thrill to subside, then Hugo, the villain,stalked in with a clanking sword at his side, a slouching hat, black beard, mysterious cloak,and the boots. After pacing to and fro in much agitation, he struck his forehead,and burst out in a wild strain, singing of his hatred for Roderigo, his love for Zara,and his pleasing resolution to kill the one and win the other. The gruff tones of Hugo’s voice,with an occasional shout when his feelings overcame him, were very impressive,and the audience applauded the moment he paused for breath.Bowing with the air of one accustomed to public praise,he stole to the cavern and ordered Hagar to come forth with a commanding, “What ho, minion!I need thee!”
Out came Meg, with gray horsehair hanging about her face, a red and black robe, a staff,and cabalistic signs upon her cloak. Hugo demanded a potion to make Zara adore him,and one to destroy Roderigo. Hagar, in a fine dramatic melody, promised both,and proceeded to call up the spirit who would bring the love philter.
Hither, hither, from thy home, Airy sprite, I bid thee come!Born of roses, fed on dew, Charms and potions canst thou brew?Bring me here, with elfin speed, The fragrant philter which I need.Make it sweet and swift and strong, Spirit, answer now my song!
A soft strain of music sounded, and then at the back of the cave appeared a little figure in cloudy white,with glittering wings, golden hair, and a garland of roses on its head. Waving a wand, it sang...
Hither I come, From my airy home, Afar in the silver moon. Take the magic spell, And use it well, Or its power will vanish soon!
And dropping a small, gilded bottle at the witch’s feet, the spirit vanished.Another chant from Hagar produced another apparition, not a lovely one,for with a bang an ugly black imp appeared and, having croaked a reply,tossed a dark bottle at Hugo and disappeared with a mocking laugh.Having warbled his thanks and put the potions in his boots, Hugo departed,and Hagar informed the audience that as he had killed a few of her friends in times past,she had cursed him, and intends to thwart his plans, and be revenged on him. Then the curtain fell,and the audience reposed and ate candy while discussing the merits of the play.
A good deal of hammering went on before the curtain rose again,but when it became evident what a masterpiece of stage carpentery had been got up,no one murmured at the delay. It was truly superb. A tower rose to the ceiling,halfway up appeared a window with a lamp burning in it,and behind the white curtain appeared Zara in a lovely blue and silver dress, waiting for Roderigo.He came in gorgeous array, with plumed cap, red cloak, chestnut lovelocks, a guitar, and the boots,of course. Kneeling at the foot of the tower, he sang a serenade in melting tones.Zara replied and, after a musical dialogue, consented to fly.Then came the grand effect of the play. Roderigo produced a rope ladder, with five steps to it,threw up one end, and invited Zara to descend. Timidly she crept from her lattice,put her hand on Roderigo’s shoulder, and was about to leap gracefully down when “Alas!Alas for Zara!” she forgot her train. It caught in the window, the tower tottered, leaned forward,fell with a crash, and buried the unhappy lovers in the ruins.
A universal shriek arose as the russet boots waved wildly from the wreck and a golden head emerged, exclaiming, “I told you so!I told you so!” With wonderful presence of mind, Don Pedro, the cruel sire, rushed in, dragged out his daughter, with a hasty aside...
“Don’t laugh!Act as if it was all right!” and, ordering Roderigo up, banished him from the kingdom with wrath and scorn.Though decidedly shaken by the fall from the tower upon him,Roderigo defied the old gentleman and refused to stir. This dauntless example fired Zara.She also defied her sire, and he ordered them both to the deepest dungeons of the castle.A stout little retainer came in with chains and led them away,looking very much frightened and evidently forgetting the speech he ought to have made.
Act third was the castle hall, and here Hagar appeared,having come to free the lovers and finish Hugo. She hears him coming and hides,sees him put the potions into two cups of wine and bid the timid little servant,“Bear them to the captives in their cells, and tell them I shall come anon.” The servant takes Hugo aside to tell him something,and Hagar changes the cups for two others which are harmless. Ferdinando, the ‘minion’,carries them away, and Hagar puts back the cup which holds the poison meant for Roderigo. Hugo,getting thirsty after a long warble, drinks it, loses his wits,and after a good deal of clutching and stamping, falls flat and dies,while Hagar informs him what she has done in a song of exquisite power and melody.
This was a truly thrilling scene, though some persons might have thought that the sudden tumbling down of a quantity of long red hair rather marred the effect of the villain’s death. He was called before the curtain, and with great propriety appeared, leading Hagar, whose singing was considered more wonderful than all the rest of the performance put together.
Act fourth displayed the despairing Roderigo on the point of stabbing himself because he has been told that Zara has deserted him.Just as the dagger is at his heart, a lovely song is sung under his window,informing him that Zara is true but in danger, and he can save her if he will. A key is thrown in,which unlocks the door, and in a spasm of rapture he tears off his chains and rushes away to find and rescue his lady love.
Act fifth opened with a stormy scene between Zara and Don Pedro. He wishes her to go into a convent,but she won’t hear of it, and after a touching appeal,is about to faint when Roderigo dashes in and demands her hand. Don Pedro refuses,because he is not rich. They shout and gesticulate tremendously but cannot agree,and Rodrigo is about to bear away the exhausted Zara,when the timid servant enters with a letter and a bag from Hagar, who has mysteriously disappeared.The latter informs the party that she bequeaths untold wealth to the young pair and an awful doom to Don Pedro,if he doesn’t make them happy. The bag is opened,and several quarts of tin money shower down upon the stage till it is quite glorified with the glitter.This entirely softens the stern sire. He consents without a murmur, all join in a joyful chorus,and the curtain falls upon the lovers kneeling to receive Don Pedro’s blessing in attitudes of the most romantic grace.
Tumultuous applause followed but received an unexpected check, for the cot bed,on which the dress circle was built, suddenly shut up and extinguished the enthusiastic audience.Roderigo and Don Pedro flew to the rescue, and all were taken out unhurt,though many were speechless with laughter. The excitement had hardly subsided when Hannah appeared,with “Mrs. March’s compliments, and would the ladies walk down to supper.”
This was a surprise even to the actors, and when they saw the table,they looked at one another in rapturous amazement.It was like Marmee to get up a little treat for them,but anything so fine as this was unheard of since the departed days of plenty. There was ice cream,actually two dishes of it, pink and white, and cake and fruit and distracting French bonbons and,in the middle of the table, four great bouquets of hot house flowers.
It quite took their breath away, and they stared first at the table and then at their mother,who looked as if she enjoyed it immensely.
“Is it fairies?” asked Amy.
“Santa Claus,” said Beth.
“Mother did it.” And Meg smiled her sweetest, in spite of her gray beard and white eyebrows.
“Aunt March had a good fit and sent the supper,” cried Jo, with a sudden inspiration.
“All wrong. Old Mr. Laurence sent it,” replied Mrs. March.
“The Laurence boy’s grandfather!What in the world put such a thing into his head?We don’t know him!” exclaimed Meg.
“Hannah told one of his servants about your breakfast party. He is an odd old gentleman,but that pleased him. He knew my father years ago, and he sent me a polite note this afternoon,saying he hoped I would allow him to express his friendly feeling toward my children by sending them a few trifles in honor of the day.I could not refuse, and so you have a little feast at night to make up for the bread-and-milk breakfast. ”
“That boy put it into his head, I know he did!He’s a capital fellow, and I wish we could get acquainted.He looks as if he’d like to know us but he’s bashful,and Meg is so prim she won’t let me speak to him when we pass,” said Jo, as the plates went round,and the ice began to melt out of sight, with ohs and ahs of satisfaction.
“You mean the people who live in the big house next door, don’t you?” asked one of the girls. “My mother knows old Mr. Laurence,but says he’s very proud and doesn’t like to mix with his neighbors. He keeps his grandson shut up,when he isn’t riding or walking with his tutor, and makes him study very hard.We invited him to our party, but he didn’t come. Mother says he’s very nice, though he never speaks to us girls.”
“Our cat ran away once, and he brought her back, and we talked over the fence,and were getting on capitally, all about cricket, and so on, when he saw Meg coming,and walked off. I mean to know him some day, for he needs fun, I’m sure he does, ” said Jo decidedly.
“I like his manners, and he looks like a little gentleman, so I’ve no objection to your knowing him,if a proper opportunity comes. He brought the flowers himself, and I should have asked him in,if I had been sure what was going on upstairs. He looked so wistful as he went away,hearing the frolic and evidently having none of his own.”
“It’s a mercy you didn’t, Mother!” laughed Jo, looking at her boots. “But we’ll have another play sometime that he can see.Perhaps he’ll help act. Wouldn’t that be jolly?”
“I never had such a fine bouquet before!How pretty it is!” And Meg examined her flowers with great interest.
“They are lovely. But Beth’s roses are sweeter to me,” said Mrs. March,smelling the half-dead posy in her belt.
Beth nestled up to her, and whispered softly, “I wish I could send my bunch to Father.I’m afraid he isn’t having such a merry Christmas as we are.”
CHAPTER THREE THE LAURENCE BOY
“Jo!Jo!Where are you?” cried Meg at the foot of the garret stairs.
“Here!” answered a husky voice from above, and, running up,Meg found her sister eating apples and crying over the Heir of Redclyffe,wrapped up in a comforter on an old three-legged sofa by the sunny window.This was Jo’s favorite refuge, and here she loved to retire with half a dozen russets and a nice book,to enjoy the quiet and the society of a pet rat who lived near by and didn’t mind her a particle.As Meg appeared, Scrabble whisked into his hole.Jo shook the tears off her cheeks and waited to hear the news.
“Such fun!Only see!A regular note of invitation from Mrs. Gardiner for tomorrow night!” cried Meg, waving the precious paper and then proceeding to read it with girlish delight.
“‘Mrs. Gardiner would be happy to see Miss March and Miss Josephine at a little dance on New Year’s Eve.’ Marmee is willing we should go, now what shall we wear?”
“What’s the use of asking that, when you know we shall wear our poplins, because we haven’t got anything else?” answered Jo with her mouth full.
“If I only had a silk!” sighed Meg. “Mother says I may when I’m eighteen perhaps,but two years is an everlasting time to wait.”
“I’m sure our pops look like silk, and they are nice enough for us. Yours is as good as new,but I forgot the burn and the tear in mine. Whatever shall I do?The burn shows badly, and I can’t take any out.”
“You must sit still all you can and keep your back out of sight. The front is all right.I shall have a new ribbon for my hair, and Marmee will lend me her little pearl pin,and my new slippers are lovely, and my gloves will do, though they aren’t as nice as I’d like.”
“Mine are spoiled with lemonade, and I can’t get any new ones, so I shall have to go without,” said Jo, who never troubled herself much about dress.
“You must have gloves, or I won’t go,” cried Meg decidedly.“Gloves are more important than anything else. You can’t dance without them,and if you don’t I should be so mortified.”
“Then I’ll stay still. I don’t care much for company dancing. It’s no fun to go sailing round. I like to fly about and cut capers.”
“You can’t ask Mother for new ones, they are so expensive, and you are so careless.She said when you spoiled the others that she shouldn’t get you any more this winter. Can’t you make them do?”
“I can hold them crumpled up in my hand, so no one will know how stained they are. That’s all I can do. No!I’ll tell you how we can manage, each wear one good one and carry a bad one. Don’t you see?”
“Your hands are bigger than mine, and you will stretch my glove dreadfully,” began Meg,whose gloves were a tender point with her.
“Then I’ll go without. I don’t care what people say!” cried Jo, taking up her book.
“You may have it, you may!Only don’t stain it, and do behave nicely. Don’t put your hands behind you, or stare, or say ‘Christopher Columbus!’ will you?”
“Don’t worry about me. I’ll be as prim as I can and not get into any scrapes, if I can help it.Now go and answer your note, and let me finish this splendid story.”
So Meg went away to ‘accept with thanks’, look over her dress,and sing blithely as she did up her one real lace frill, while Jo finished her story,her four apples, and had a game of romps with Scrabble.
On New Year’s Eve the parlor was deserted,for the two younger girls played dressing maids and the two elder were absorbed in the all-important business of ‘getting ready for the party’.Simple as the toilets were, there was a great deal of running up and down, laughing and talking,and at one time a strong smell of burned hair pervaded the house.Meg wanted a few curls about her face, and Jo undertook to pinch the papered locks with a pair of hot tongs.
“Ought they to smoke like that?” asked Beth from her perch on the bed.
“It’s the dampness drying,” replied Jo.
“What a queer smell!It’s like burned feathers,” observed Amy, smoothing her own pretty curls with a superior air.
“There, now I’ll take off the papers and you’ll see a cloud of little ringlets,” said Jo, putting down the tongs.
She did take off the papers, but no cloud of ringlets appeared, for the hair came with the papers,and the horrified hairdresser laid a row of little scorched bundles on the bureau before her victim.
“Oh, oh, oh!What have you done?I’m spoiled!I can’t go!My hair, oh, my hair!” wailed Meg, looking with despair at the uneven frizzle on her forehead.
“Just my luck!You shouldn’t have asked me to do it. I always spoil everything. I’m so sorry,but the tongs were too hot, and so I’ve made a mess,” groaned poor Jo,regarding the little black pancakes with tears of regret.
“It isn’t spoiled. Just frizzle it, and tie your ribbon so the ends come on your forehead a bit,and it will look like the last fashion. I’ve seen many girls do it so,” said Amy consolingly.
“Serves me right for trying to be fine. I wish I’d let my hair alone,” cried Meg petulantly.
“So do I, it was so smooth and pretty. But it will soon grow out again,” said Beth,coming to kiss and comfort the shorn sheep.
After various lesser mishaps, Meg was finished at last,and by the united exertions of the entire family Jo’s hair was got up and her dress on.They looked very well in their simple suits, Meg’s in silvery drab, with a blue velvet snood,lace frills, and the pearl pin. Jo in maroon, with a stiff, gentlemanly linen collar,and a white chrysanthemum or two for her only ornament. Each put on one nice light glove,and carried one soiled one, and all pronounced the effect “quite easy and fine”.Meg’s high-heeled slippers were very tight and hurt her, though she would not own it,and Jo’s nineteen hairpins all seemed stuck straight into her head,which was not exactly comfortable, but, dear me, let us be elegant or die.
“Have a good time, dearies!” said Mrs. March, as the sisters went daintily down the walk. “Don’t eat much supper,and come away at eleven when I send Hannah for you.” As the gate clashed behind them, a voice cried from a window...
“Girls, girls!Have you you both got nice pocket handkerchiefs?”
“Yes, yes, spandy nice, and Meg has cologne on hers,” cried Jo, adding with a laugh as they went on,“I do believe Marmee would ask that if we were all running away from an earthquake.”
“It is one of her aristocratic tastes, and quite proper,for a real lady is always known by neat boots, gloves, and handkerchief,” replied Meg,who had a good many little ‘aristocratic tastes’ of her own.
“Now don’t forget to keep the bad breadth out of sight, Jo. Is my sash right?And does my hair look very bad?” said Meg, as she turned from the glass in Mrs. Gardiner’s dressing room after a prolonged prink.
“I know I shall forget. If you see me doing anything wrong, just remind me by a wink, will you?” returned Jo, giving her collar a twitch and her head a hasty brush.
“No, winking isn’t ladylike. I’ll lift my eyebrows if any thing is wrong,and nod if you are all right. Now hold your shoulder straight, and take short steps,and don’t shake hands if you are introduced to anyone. It isn’t the thing.”
“How do you learn all the proper ways?I never can. Isn’t that music gay?”
Down they went, feeling a trifle timid, for they seldom went to parties,and informal as this little gathering was, it was an event to them. Mrs. Gardiner,a stately old lady, greeted them kindly and handed them over to the eldest of her six daughters.Meg knew Sallie and was at her ease very soon, but Jo,who didn’t care much for girls or girlish gossip, stood about,with her back carefully against the wall,and felt as much out of place as a colt in a flower garden.Half a dozen jovial lads were talking about skates in another part of the room,and she longed to go and join them, for skating was one of the joys of her life.She telegraphed her wish to Meg, but the eyebrows went up so alarmingly that she dared not stir.No one came to talk to her, and one by one the group dwindled away till she was left alone.She could not roam about and amuse herself, for the burned breadth would show,so she stared at people rather forlornly till the dancing began. Meg was asked at once,and the tight slippers tripped about so briskly that none would have guessed the pain their wearer suffered smilingly.Jo saw a big red headed youth approaching her corner, and fearing he meant to engage her,she slipped into a curtained recess, intending to peep and enjoy herself in peace. Unfortunately,another bashful person had chosen the same refuge, for, as the curtain fell behind her,she found herself face to face with the ‘Laurence boy’.
“Dear me, I didn’t know anyone was here!” stammered Jo, preparing to back out as speedily as she had bounced in.
But the boy laughed and said pleasantly, though he looked a little startled, “Don’t mind me, stay if you like.”
“Shan’t I disturb you?”
“Not a bit. I only came here because I don’t know many people and felt rather strange at first, you know.”
“So did I. Don’t go away, please, unless you’d rather.”
The boy sat down again and looked at his pumps, till Jo said, trying to be polite and easy,“I think I’ve had the pleasure of seeing you before. You live near us, don’t you?”
“Next door.” And he looked up and laughed outright,for Jo’s prim manner was rather funny when he remembered how they had chatted about cricket when he brought the cat home.
That put Jo at her ease and she laughed too, as she said, in her heartiest way,“We did have such a good time over your nice Christmas present.”
“Grandpa sent it.”
“But you put it into his head, didn’t you, now?”
“How is your cat, Miss March?” asked the boy, trying to look sober while his black eyes shone with fun.
“Nicely, thank you, Mr. Laurence. But I am not Miss March, I’m only Jo,” returned the young lady.
“I’m not Mr. Laurence, I’m only Laurie.”
“Laurie Laurence, what an odd name.”
“My first name is Theodore, but I don’t like it, for the fellows called me Dora, so I made them say Laurie instead.”
“I hate my name, too, so sentimental!I wish every one would say Jo instead of Josephine. How did you make the boys stop calling you Dora?”
“I thrashed ’em.”
“I can’t thrash Aunt March, so I suppose I shall have to bear it. ” And Jo resigned herself with a sigh.
“Don’t you like to dance, Miss Jo?” asked Laurie, looking as if he thought the name suited her.
“I like it well enough if there is plenty of room, and everyone is lively.In a place like this I’m sure to upset something, tread on people’s toes, or do something dreadful,so I keep out of mischief and let Meg sail about. Don’t you dance?”
“Sometimes. You see I’ve been abroad a good many years,and haven’t been into company enough yet to know how you do things here.”
“Abroad!” cried Jo. “Oh, tell me about it!I love dearly to hear people describe their travels.”
Laurie didn’t seem to know where to begin, but Jo’s eager questions soon set him going,and he told her how he had been at school in Vevay,where the boys never wore hats and had a fleet of boats on the lake,and for holiday fun went on walking trips about Switzerland with their teachers.
“Don’t I wish I’d been there!” cried Jo. “Did you go to Paris?”
“We spent last winter there.”
“Can you talk French?”
“We were not allowed to speak anything else at Vevay.”
“Do say some!I can read it, but can’t pronounce.”
“Quel nom a cette jeune demoiselle en les pantoufles jolis?”
“How nicely you do it!Let me see ... you said, ‘Who is the young lady in the pretty slippers’, didn’t you?”
“Oui, mademoiselle.”
“It’s my sister Margaret, and you knew it was!Do you think she is pretty?”
“Yes, she makes me think of the German girls, she looks so fresh and quiet, and dances like a lady.”
Jo quite glowed with pleasure at this boyish praise of her sister,and stored it up to repeat to Meg. Both peeped and criticized and chatted till they felt like old acquaintances.Laurie’s bashfulness soon wore off, for Jo’s gentlemanly demeanor amused and set him at his ease,and Jo was her merry self again, because her dress was forgotten and nobody lifted their eyebrows at her.She liked the ‘Laurence boy’ better than ever and took several good looks at him,so that she might describe him to the girls, for they had no brothers, very few male cousins,and boys were almost unknown creatures to them.
“Curly black hair, brown skin, big black eyes, handsome nose, fine teeth, small hands and feet,taller than I am, very polite, for a boy, and altogether jolly. Wonder how old he is?”
It was on the tip of Jo’s tongue to ask, but she checked herself in time and, with unusual tact, tried to find out in a round-about way.
“I suppose you are going to college soon?I see you pegging away at your books, no, I mean studying hard.” And Jo blushed at the dreadful ‘pegging’ which had escaped her.
Laurie smiled but didn’t seem shocked, and answered with a shrug. “Not for a year or two. I won’t go before seventeen, anyway.”
“Aren’t you but fifteen?” asked Jo, looking at the tall lad, whom she had imagined seventeen already.
“Sixteen, next month.”
“How I wish I was going to college!You don’t look as if you liked it.”
“I hate it!Nothing but grinding or skylarking. And I don’t like the way fellows do either, in this country.”
“What do you like?”
“To live in Italy, and to enjoy myself in my own way.”
Jo wanted very much to ask what his own way was,but his black brows looked rather threatening as he knit them,so she changed the subject by saying, as her foot kept time, “That’s a splendid polka!Why don’t you go and try it?”
“If you will come too,” he answered, with a gallant little bow.
“I can’t, for I told Meg I wouldn’t, because...” There Jo stopped,and looked undecided whether to tell or to laugh.
“Because, what?”
“You won’t tell?”
“Never!”
“Well, I have a bad trick of standing before the fire, and so I burn my frocks,and I scorched this one, and though it’s nicely mended, it shows,and Meg told me to keep still so no one would see it. You may laugh, if you want to. It is funny, I know.”