Archive of Our Own ^beta

Let us imagine that Laurie spends a melancholy and unsatisfying year in Europe, and that he feels for Amy nothing more than brotherly affection. With that, we will rejoin Miss Alcott's writing for a short time, before departing down a different road.

It was easy to promise self-abnegation when self was wrapped up in another, and heart and soul were purified by a sweet example; but when the helpful voice was silent, the daily lesson over, the beloved presence gone, and nothing remained but loneliness and grief, the Jo found her promise very hard to keep. How could she "comfort Father and Mother" when her own heart ached with a ceaseless longing for her sister, how could she "make the house cheerful" when all its light and warmth and beauty seemed to have deserted it when Beth left the old home for the new, and where in all the world could she "find some happy, useful work to do" that would take the place of the loving service that had been its own reward? She tried in a blind, hopeless way to do her duty, secretly rebelling against it all the while, for it seemed unjust that her few joys should be lessened, her burdens made heavier, and life get harder and harder as she toiled along. Some people seemed to get all sunshine, and some all shadow; it was not fair, for she tried more than Amy to be good, but never got any reward, only disappointment, trouble, and hard work.

Poor Jo, these were dark days to her, for something like despair came over her when she thought of spending all her life in that quiet house, devoted to humdrum cares, a few small pleasures, and the duty that never seemed to grow any easier. "I can't do it. I wasn't meant for a life like this, and I know I shall break away and do something desperate if somebody doesn't come and help me," she said to herself, when her first efforts failed and she fell into the moody, miserable state of mind which often comes when strong wills have to yield to the inevitable.

She was sensible of her parents' even greater grief and she thought she would spare them by not speaking of her feelings. Jo could not see how much it would have comforted her mother to be of help to her wild daughter; instead, Jo closed up her despair within walls that grew higher each day. She would not speak of it, and yet it tainted all her thoughts, until she feared there was nothing in her that she could safely share with them. And thus, although she was a constant presence at their sides, mother and father and sister sometimes felt as if they had lost Jo as surely as they had lost sweet Beth.

Some days Jo worked herself into exhaustion with household tasks. She attacked them with anger, as if it were the coal scuttles and stair runners that held her prisoner. Other days she could scarcely rouse herself from the window seat: she sat and watched the dappled leaf shadows, just as Beth had, with her mind as empty of thoughts as she could make it.

Mrs. March understood Jo's hidden afflictions better than Jo would have guessed. Even a mother only half as wise as she could have sensed the way that her daughter felt snared by duty and mired in grief. She worried that any push from her would put Jo to flight, and yet she could not bear to see Jo suffer alone any longer. And so one day when Jo was in one of her fits of deep despondency, Mrs. March enlisted the aid of an old friend who had never yet failed. she stood behind Jo's seat at the window and stroked her hair for a few minutes, and said, "Why don't you try to write something? That always used to make you happy."

Jo herself had no hope that it would bring any ease, but the next day found her up in the garret with the hoard of papers from her little writing-desk spread out in a circle about her. How vain and foolish all her stories seemed now! How contrived her characters' griefs, and how false their expressions! And yet, even as she berated herself for ever dreaming that she might have even a shred of talent, a blank page beckoned to her. It came to her, then, that there were things about Beth that she wanted never to forget, things that even now were growing a little distant and dreamlike though not even a month had gone by yet since Beth's gentle passage.

Jo took up her pen. She returned downstairs hours later with a tear-stained countenance and a calmer heart. All those who loved her best could see the change in her, and no one begrudged the time she begn spending up in the garret every afternoon. Perhaps they would have if they had known the conclusions Jo was drawing as she poured out her heart to the page each day: no longer did she feel the noose tightening so close about her -- she could face her family and the routines of her home and remember the comforting beauty they had always held for her before -- but she began to grow ever more certain that she was destined for a life different than the one she was leading now.

Gardening was one task that never felt like a chore to Jo. In the sun and fresh air of their little flower garden, memories lay like dew on the leaves, but they were gentle as the dew, too, never sharp or hurtful. One spring morning found Jo up to her elbows in bluebells, with hands, apron, and even face liberally smudged with dirt.

Some small sound made her turn back toward the house. Nothing looked out of the ordinary, until finally she saw the figure in the shadows near the kitchen door. She scrambled to her feet but then stopped as still as a statue. It was Laurie, and poor Jo was rendered speechless (for one of the few times in her life) by the confusion of all her conflicting thoughts.

He stepped out of the shade, and he looked just as tall and as beautiful as ever, but Jo could see in his sober and grown-up face the marks of a grief that thinks only of the pain of others, and not of the self. And that decided her; she took the first step toward him, ready to run across the lawn and fling herself into his arms and greet him like a brother for the sake of the little sister and friend that both had lost, when the rest of her family came trooping around the corner of the house.

Of course Amy deserved first fling, and then several Marches were so overcome by family togetherness (for Meg and John and the smallest Brookes had been collected on the way from the train station) that a great round of hugging commenced, and by the time Jo finally came near Laurie she felt strange and shy once more.

"Teddy--" she began, and he interrupted, "Jo, I'm so sorry. I was so glad I could be of help to Amy, when we found out, but still I worried even more about you. I know you won't like to hear that, but --"

"No, you were right to worry. It hasn't been easy for me, though I dare say I've probably done ten things to make it harder for myself, like I always do."

Then Laurie clasped her hand for a moment, and before Jo even had time to worry herself over what it might mean, Hannah was there shepherding everyone inside for an impromptu luncheon. Laurie turned to go in, but then looked back over his shoulder and pointed to his chin; Jo brushed her own chin and came away with a generous smudge of garden soil. It is very possible that young Laurence chuckled as he ducked into the house.

Many tears were shed and many laughs were shared over the sandwiches and cakes and tea. Daisy and Demi had many more sweets than were good for them -- though not nearly as many as they thought they deserved -- and by way of sticky kisses and sticky hands spread jam to most of their relations and several pieces of furniture besides. The returning travellers could not help but remark on changes that had taken place in the familiar little house, and each change reminded all of them of the greatest and saddest change that afflicted them. Yet there was so much delight in their reunion that no one could be sad for long; truly, all felt as if Beth's presence was there in the gathering with them.

The travellers in turn were studied by the stay-at-homes. Jo, for her part, determined it was better not to look at Laurie again after their initial greeting, so she devoted all her study to Amy. Amy's poise had matured to a genuine dignity; her grace was all the greater now that she herself did not seem so conscious of it. Yet her face had sorrow in it, and signs of nights without sleep, and Jo was not alone in wondering if Amy hadn't put all her cheer into her letters, saving none for herself.

John got up from the old sofa to rescue Mrs. March's favorite vase from Demi's enterprising clutches, and Jo used that opportunity to take his place next to Amy. She reached out and took Amy's hand, but then lost her nerve to say anything. It seemed impossible that this grave young woman could be their familiar, lively, often-vexing Amy! Meg saved the moment; all the older folk were listening to Mr. Laurence tell of a famous theologian he had heard speak in Berlin, and Meg swooped in for some more intimate sisterly conversation. "Amy, is there anyone else you miss? Is there someone you left behind in Europe, someone you'll be waiting to get letters from?"

As always, it was Meg who proved to have the best insight into Amy's heart, for Amy blushed. "It's possible Fred Vaughn will write," she said.

"What? I thought you turned him down!" Jo exclaimed, squeezing Amys hand.

"I did, and it was the right decision. But then he wrote to me again after he heard of Beth's passing -- not to entreat me, just to express his sympathy -- and his letter was so frank and honest. It had more of his heart in it than anything he'd ever said to me. And so I wrote him back."

"So why aren't you happier?" Jo asked. "Are you worried that maybe you've both changed your minds?"

"It's complicated," Amy said, and though truly she did not affect an air of superiority when she said it, Jo suddenly found it easier to believe she had got her old sister back after all.

Jo may have resolved not to look at Laurie, but clearly, he had made no similar resolution. Every time Jo's gaze inadvertantly strayed across him, she found him looking right at her. His expression wasn't petulant or tragic, as it had so often been before he left, and it wasn't the moon-eyed fondness that had so often irritated Jo before his ill-fated proposal. There was something like concern in the look, and something like appreciation, but more than anything else it appeared to be clear-eyed study of her.

"Well, I doubt much he'll like what he sees," Jo said to herself. "I've turned into a sulky, careworn drudge, and it's as much my own fault as anyone else's. If a year in Europe didn't cure his romantic notions, I'm sure an afternoon with me will do it." She tried to pretend she was entirely happy about this, but the fact of the matter is, her battered heart ached to be the center of someone's attention and affection, and in some tiny corner of that heart it no longer seemed so impossible that her oldest friend might be that person.

When the tender reunion finally broke up late in the evening, Jo was every bit as confused in her feelings as she'd been that morning. In the tumult of good-byes -- for everyone seemed as overcome with emotion as if the travellers were departing on the morrow for yet another year -- Laurie pulled a sheaf of papers out of a valise and handed them to Jo. "You should read these," he said.

"You know my French is execrable," Jo said a little bitterly, as she leafed through the stack of newspapers, journals, and chapbooks.

"Get Amy to help you, or just plow through them with a dictionary. Please," he said, then someone handed him a sleepy child to carry and he was out the door.

The following week was a strange one all around. As happy as they all were to be reunited as a family again, nobody quite seemed to fit right at first. Amy was taller and quieter, Mr. and Mrs. March seemed shorter and most definitely grayer, Jo was still quite withdrawn -- by Jo standards -- and no one knew what role Laurie was to play in their lives now. Amy was in and out of the Laurence house all day, but neither Jo nor Laurie took a step across the hedge that divided their two estates.

Jo did, however, plow through the papers as requested. Such a strange collection of writings they were! Stories of simple country life in France, with carefully drawn characters whose choices in life always seemed to end in tragedy; lively vignettes of artistic life in Paris; and poetry on such morbid and improper subjects that Jo was shocked even as she was fascinated by the craft that went into them: these were just some of the things she found.

Jo didn't know what to make of the writings themselves, or of Laurie's impulse in giving them to her. Her native curiousity finally won out over all other forces and she decided to pay a call on the Laurences. After all, Laurie had given her a perfectly harmless topic of conversation to open with: they could discuss French literature. "Really, how silly of me to have been in hiding for a whole week!" Jo said, as she made the short trip between houses, which seemed ten times longer and more daunting than it ever had before.

Laurie was proclaimed to be at home, and Jo was admitted to the library. And there stood Laurie. Jo stared again, unable to understand how his dear face could be at once so familiar to her and so strange, and then he smiled a warm and merry smile and he was wholly her Teddy again. They embraced as they had so many times, and Jo told herself firmly that it was just as it had always been.

"I've been wrestling with that French every day," Jo told him, "and though it was a pretty near thing on a few occasions, I think I have emerged the victor."

"Any bruises?" he asked, laughing.

"Well, I could say I bruised my confidence, but since I haven't any when it comes to foreign tongues, I think I am in fact unscathed." Jo was so happy to be having a civil, reasonable conversation with him again, and yet something was still somehow disconcerting; her face felt very warm. She turned her attention to the familiar library shelves.

"Did you wonder why I brought those back for you?" Laurie asked, after a pause.

"I did."

"I tried writing an opera."

And that made Jo laugh, and she turned back to him for the explanation.

"Oh, you laugh at my opera? Well, you should. It was dreadful. No, not even dreadful, because dreadful things often have a kind of purity and passion to them, have you noticed? No, it was merely dull. It was... not a work of genius, let us say. Amy and I talked about that often -- about how we each discovered that no matter how much we might enjoy our artistic pursuits, they contributed to nothing beyond our own entertainment. True art isn't like that, Jo; true art gives something real to the people who hear it or read it or see it. You, alone out of all of us, might become a true artist, if somebody gives you the chance. I don't want you to forget that."

Tears sprang to Jo's eyes. She tried to wipe away the hot tracks as they ran down her face. "Everyone else seems to have forgotten it," she sniffed. "No one complains if I write, and they seem glad that it makes me happy. But they don't--" and to her great chagrin, a little sob interrupted. Laurie drew nearer. He rested one hand on her shoulder, and with the other he touched one tear as it dripped down her chin. What Jo felt more than anything was the relief of having a weight removed, the weight of feeling misunderstood by all those closest to her.

Tears continued to spill out. "Don't know why I'm crying," Jo mumbled, embarrassed. She stepped back and scrubbed her arm across her eyes. Laurie wordlessly produced a clean pocket handkerchief. Jo took it and slumped into a nearby armchair.

"And I suppose I owe you an apology, Teddy, for so greatly misjudging you. Because I didn't think you regarded my scribbling in the least, except for the satirical bits that used to make you laugh."

"No apology!" he insisted. "Because you're absolutely right. I used to think of it as a charming quirk of yours, and as a source of fun for theatricals and such. Not that I would ever have denied that it could be more; I just couldn't be bothered to think of it in any other light. That's how I was with everything: shockingly absorbed in having my own fun. I don't know how you all put up with me," he said darkly, hanging his head with an expression of disgust. "I've learned more that actually matters in the past year than I did in the entire twenty-four leading up to it, and now I see that I've been very stupid for a long time."

"Well, you did learn how to walk and talk somewhere in that first stretch. I'm sure that's been useful," Jo said, falling easily into their old habit of talking nonsense with each other.

"Don't try to cheer me up, Jo," he said. "I'm trying to tell you that you were right to turn me down last year."

Jo felt her breath catch in her chest. She didn't want him to ask her again -- not yet. It was such a joy to be with him again; he had always brought so much cheer and beauty into her life, such a spark of excitement. She wanted to watch him laugh again, see his white teeth flash and the light glint in his dark eyes. She wanted to hear his clear voice raised in song, or reading aloud as he sometimes used to do as the girls all sewed. She wanted to bask in the pleasure that he brought without having to risk anything of her own. Unfair, unfair, her weary heart said, don't ask me to dare, not now.

"I want you to go to Paris," Laurie said.

This was so unexpected that it took her some moments to find words to respond. "Heaven knows, I want that, too," she said, "but I think that ship has sailed. Around the world, probably, by now. Twice."

"Grandfather and I could give you the money. I know that your family is proud, and that some would think a gift like that improper, but Grandfather has already said he's willing if your family will agree. I'm sure we could find some respectable acquaintances who would be willing to chaperone you, though they might not be your first choice of travelling companions. But think of it, Jo! Think of the new sights and the ancient beauty, and more than anything, the people who live for art!"

Jo could see it all, a dazzling landscape made up of bits from Amy's letters, old novels, and her own untameable imagination. She grabbed Laurie's hands and cried, "Oh, Teddy, do you really think it could work?"

"Maybe it could," he said, "and I'll be honest with you, Jo: I hope to go with you. I want to show you the people and the places. I want to see you bloom there, as I know you will, and know that I had some part in it. But if you don't want me there, or if your people don't think it proper, I'll stay behind. The most important thing is that you be happy."

She looked down at his strong hands clasped in her own. "I don't deserve this. I've been complaining to myself for months that I deserved travel more than Amy did, but when good fortune finally finds me, I look in my heart and see how unworthy I am of it. And from you especially, my dear... you repay my unkindness with such astonishing generosity--"

"Honesty isn't unkind, Jo." She looked up just in time to see him look away, but she caught in his eyes the glimmer that soon leads to tears.

"And of course I want you to go with me. I don't see how I could possibly do this without you. So, here, let us share our one handkerchief -- this corner's mine, that's yours -- and make ourselves presentable, and go talk to my mother and father."

Before they left the library, Jo paused and took his hand again. "You may have saved my life, dear Teddy," she whispered hoarsely.

They ran out into the damp garden. The last of the jonquils still bloomed in swathes beneath the new-leaved trees. Their two gardens had once seemed such a wilderness (an entire imagined continent, in one memorable childhood game), and now the two young people crossed the space in what seemed little more than a heartbeat, the little world of home eclipsed by the scale of the globe that now seemed at their command.

Jo's heart sang with hope, but the joy in Laurie's heart was considerably more bittersweet. Contrary to Jo's imaginings, he was not over his "romantic notions" in the least. The travails of the past year had only served to temper and refine his affections, making them purer and stronger than ever. The broader and more varied his acquaintance became, the more he realized how rare and irreplaceable Jo was. He had returned home to find her as awkward, tempermental, and brilliant as ever, and to see her spark dimmed by weariness and grief was more than he could bear.

In his own dramatic way, he had taken Amy's sermon in Valrosa to heart -- which is to say, he took it further than Amy had ever intended. He swore to himself that he would be every bit as self-denying now as he had been selfish in the past. Never again would he ask for anything from Jo! Her happiness would be his only goal. Such self-abnegation is not an uncommon phase for young people of good conscience to go through, but if they are lucky, wise friends or their own native wisdom will eventually teach them that balance is a surer path to a good and useful life in the long run.

Mr. and Mrs. March were both at home when the young people burst in. The plan was put forward, breathlessly by Jo, and calmly but with inward trepidation by Laurie.

Mother and Father looked at each other with troubled expressions, and seemed to ask each other wordlessly who should speak first. "Children--" Mrs. March said, then seemed at a loss for further words. Jo's heart sank. "Laurie," Mr. March took over, "we cannot thank you enough for everything that your family has done for ours. Your gifts, not only of your wealth but of your good will and affection, have been a blessing to us. But under the circumstances, I think this is one gift we cannot let Jo accept."

The blood drained from Jo's face. Her family looked warily at her, expecting an explosion of her famous temper, but it did not come. Instead, Jo felt as if she would suffocate; the walls of the little parlor seemed to loom over her, waiting to collapse. "Jo," her mother tried, "I know you will go to Europe someday, when the time is right. Perhaps you will earn the money yourself, or perhaps it will come from Aunt March. We know that Laurie's intentions are beyond reproach, but this is a matter of your reputation, and though that seems a little thing to you now, an arbitrary hindrance, someday you will see it otherwise."

Still Jo said nothing. The walls felt closer still. She scratched at the neck of her dress. It was unbearable: the tired old furniture, the faded prints on the walls, the misshapen teapots and vases of youthful artistic follies, all were ugly and heavy and mocking and they meant to immure Jo here with them forever.

She didn't even look at Laurie as she ran out. As soon as she was out of the house, she clawed at the top button at her neck, unfastening it. She walked as fast as she could, sometimes running for several yards at a stretch. Her breath came in gasps that had more to do with the knife-like pain in her heart than with the stresses of physical exertion.

Jo's suffering was something that cannot easily be described. All the worst griefs in her young life up until now, even Beth's illness and death, were griefs that could be comprehended. They did not cause her to question her identity, or her fate, or the nature of the world. Though she could not put it into words yet, in her heart she questioned all those things as she hurried blindly along the road. All her life she had trusted in her own conscience, in the wisdom of her parents, and in the goodness of God, and never had the three been in any conflict. But now, it seemed to her that at least one trust must be misplaced, and it was this that shook her to her core, more than the raw disappointment of her parents' answer.

At random, Jo had chosen the road that led to the edge of town, and now she wandered among meadows and orchards. The wholesome surroundings slowly worked their balm on Jo's wounded soul, but she was miles into the countryside by the time she finally came to herself again.

She took a little rest on the driest stretch of stone wall she could find. Some companionable cows wandered over and nosed her, and she patted them absently. There was something in Jo that seemed to be holding its breath. She could see many possible futures stretching before her, as different as night and day, and no way of knowing the right choice, or even of knowing whether the choice would be hers to make. Finally she started home, thinking that she could be just as confused and miserable there as here on her wall, and at home she could at least have coffee. Clouds had been rolling in all afternoon, and before Jo had gone more than a mile, the rain began. Jo trudged on, hatless and without shawl or umbrella. A friendly (and curious) farmer in a pony cart shortened her trip by some twenty minutes, but still she was thoroughly soaked, chilled, and exhausted by the time she returned to her doorstep.

"I would like some coffee, please, Hannah," was all Jo had said before retiring to her room. Now she sat huddled on her bed with cup and saucer in hand, wrapped in half the blankets in the house and sunk in black abstraction.

Amy had known of Laurie's plan even before he told Jo. When she returned home from paying calls to find Jo run off and her parents looking grim, Amy could guess exactly what had happened. Although Amy had always cared more for society's opinion than Jo had, she also understood intimately the lure of travel, art, and freedom, and she wished that her parents had agreed to Laurie's plan. "After all," she thought, "anyone who would fall in love with Jo in the first place would already be unconventional enough to not be bothered by some travel paid for by a family friend who happened to be a young gentleman." That is, if the trip itself didn't end up steering Jo into Laurie's arms, which Amy sincerely hoped it would. It was not her place to make these decisions, and so she did not argue with her mother and father, but they could see perfectly well that she was saddened by the turn of events.

While Jo was still absent, Amy had run next door to see how Laurie was bearing up under this latest disappointment. She saw him staring out the library window as she approached, his face utterly bereft of any hope or happiness. She threw her arms around him as soon as she reached him. "Courage," she whispered, "This is only a setback."

"No, it's the end," Laurie said dully. "There's nothing else I can offer her."

"You can offer her your friendship, dear, as you always have."

"And what does that mean?" he asked as he broke away from Amy's grasp. "Do you imagine we'll still go ice-skating on Saturday mornings and have silly little picnics by the river? We're not children anymore, Amy. Our lives diverge here. Responsibilities, duties, the expectations of society -- everything pulls us apart from each other now. She and I can choose to knit our lives together forever, or we can let them drift where fate commands them. And I don't like where Jo's is drifting to, and I can't imagine mine without her," he said miserably. The bitterness and ennui he had shown in France seemed to Amy but a schoolboy imitation of romantic grief, compared to the pain she saw now in the man before her.

"Have you told her this, since we returned?"

"No, and I never shall. She made her feelings very clear last time, and I won't put her through that again."

On this point Laurie was adamant. Amy spent the rest of the evening and into the night wondering if there were anything she could do to bring things to a happier conclusion.

In the end she decided that honesty was and always would be the best policy. Laurie's secrets weren't hers to share, but there had been something burdening her own heart for some time now, and confessing it now to Jo might be of benefit to everyone.

The rest of the household was long asleep by the time that Amy crept by candlelight to Jo's door. Even Jo had slept fitfully for a time, much to her own surprise, though she was awake again, staring into the night, by the time that Amy came and scratched for admittance at her door.

"Don't bother trying to cheer me up," Jo warned. "It won't work."

"Oh, I wouldn't dream of it. I've come to add to your troubles, instead." Amy set down her candle, took one of the blankets, and made a little nest for herself at the foot of Jo's bed.

"Ha!" Jo snorted. "You've piqued my curiousity, at least. And I do want to find out what's been troubling you ever since your return, but I warn you, I can't promise you pity, not unless your troubles are a great deal worse than mine. I declare, I used to have a heart once, but recent events have reduced it to a burnt-up husk of a thing, and I believe I shall be a very unpleasant person for the rest of my life."

It was always Jo's way to try to hide her hurts with anger and bravado, and Amy found the familiar tactic somehow cheering. "I want to tell you about the letter from Fred," she said. "It wasn't anything to do with his proposal or my refusal. It was all about Frank. He told me how sorry he was for Beth's passing, and then he told me what Frank's most recent illness and brush with death had been like for him. He said that I might be feeling some of the same things, and wondering if I was alone, and he didn't want me to be alone. Or, he said, if I didn't feel the same way, he still wanted me to know. He wanted to get it off his chest, finally, to someone." Here Amy trailed off, but she looked up and saw Jo's eyes, intent and expectant, and she gathered up the courage to continue. "He said he was angry. He said he loved Frank desperately, like half his own soul, but he was angry. Angry that Frank's frailties always earned more attention than Fred's accomplishments. Angry that every time he was enjoying himself at something that Frank would never be able to do, the pleasure was always tainted with guilt. Feeling angry for feeling guilty, feeling guilty for feeling angry -- oh, such a mess of emotions that are not nice at all! And I don't know which is more dreadful: the fact that I knew exactly how he felt for much of it, or the fact that it was a confession like this that first made me think I might be able to love him, when all his virtues couldn't accomplish that!"

Jo took Amy's hand and laughed sympathetically. "I never thought I would find myself giving romantic advice to anyone, given the complete hash I have made of my very few experiences of courtship. But it seems to me that the key to true love is finding someone who not merely tolerates your faults, but who actively loves them for the way that they reflect your good qualities. I suppose we could talk about our own faults as examples, but that would be painful, so let's pick Meg: some would find her lack of interest in the broader world to be deadly dull in a marital companion, but it's a reflection of her profound love for home and family, and if you love the virtue, you have to have some fondness for the flaw.

"Not that we shouldn't always be trying to improve ourselves," she continued, "but that doesn't mean hiding our struggles, especially from those who love us best. You marry a person, Amy, not a pretty picture. I'm sure Fred didn't feel quite real to you until he showed you his true struggles."

"And what about your struggles, Jo?" Amy asked. "Isn't there someone who might understand them and love them?"

"Did Laurie send you?" Jo asked quickly, and the expression on her face was quite comical, because she seemed torn between scowling and looking hopeful.

"I wish he had!" Amy said. "I'm sure I'd be doing a better job of pressing his suit than he is. But since he hasn't asked me, I can only speak for myself: the two of you have both changed so much and learned so much since Laurie first spoke to you. And you've been apart for so long, I think you hardly know each other anymore! Tell each other your struggles, and see if a life together wouldn't help you both bear them better."

"Amy, I'm so frightened. So tired and frightened." Jo bowed her head. "What if it all goes wrong?"

"What if it all goes right, only you never find out, because you daren't try? Jo, I've never known you to lack for courage before."

"Maybe you're right," she said, taking one great deep breath and then another. "And if I'm to do it, I'll do it now, or I'll only pace and worry all night and be a wreck in the morning." She jumped out of bed and took up the candle.

"Now that's my Jo!" said Amy.

The two girls scurried down the dark stairs and into the kitchen, where Jo tossed on a wrap and some galoshes, and Amy hugged her for luck.

The moon was nearly full and high in the sky, so Jo left her candle at home. Her earlier trip to Laurie's felt like a memory from years ago. She picked up a piece of gravel from under the boxwoods and slung it at Laurie's bedroom window, that same window at which she had seen him leaning so pale and lonely-looking so many years ago.

Jo had far more experience with rock-throwing than was ladylike, and she judged her force and distance nicely. It took several rocks clinking against the glass before Laurie's curly head appeared at the window.

"Teddy, will you come down?" she whispered, as loudly as she dared.

"Gladly," floated down his quiet reply.

He exited through the conservatory and joined her on the lawn. He hadn't stopped to dress, and thus was clad in nightshirt, robe and slippers.

Jo hadn't the slightest idea where to begin, but her air of suppressed excitement gave Laurie some clue, and he rejoiced. "If you're here to suggest we run away to Paris, I'll need a few minutes to pack," he teased, feeling breathless.

"Amy thinks we should get married!" Jo blurted out.

"I think so too, now that you mention it. But what do you think?"

"I think that nearly everything I said last year is still true. I'll never be an 'ornament to society' as Amy calls it. I'll never be easy or elegant, or be good at throwing parties--"

"Jo dearest, what does any of that have to do with marrying me?" he asked, taking her hands in his. "If I wanted those things, I'd marry, I don't know, Amy! You remember the story of my childhood, Jo. This year, I went back to the town in Italy where I was born. I have so few firm memories of my mother and father, but I found the little house where we used to live, and the landlady let me inside. When I saw the rooms, I remembered the music: the students my mother used to teach, her musician friends, and my father and mother would sing together, too, all through the house...." Now it was Laurie's turn to scrub tears away, and Jo who found herself gently caressing his cheek. "They gave up everything the world said they should want, for art and for each other, and they were happy. I can't do as my father did -- I won't leave Grandfather, and I mean to take over his business. But I don't want elegance and fashion; I want what my parents had. I want warmth and love and you."

Now they were both crying, and no one had a handkerchief, so the sleeves and lapels of Laurie's robe got quite damp before anyone was composed enough to speak again.

"I want those things, too," Jo whispered. "Warmth, and love -- and you." She rested her head on his shoulder, thinking it would be easier to go on with her face hidden. "But I am so very difficult to live with. Just ask my family: I think they only put up with me because they are accustomed to me, and because they have no choice. What if we married, and you came to regret it? What if you grew to hate me? I could never bear that, Teddy!"

He tightened his arms about her in answer. "What will become of us if we don't marry? What will we have to bear, then? Don't marry me, my dearest, if it won't make you happy, but trust me to know where my own happiness lies."

Jo only buried her face further into his chest, and Laurie wasn't sure that he could take that as a "Yes". Nevertheless, he kissed her hair several times.

"Does this make me a coward?" came Jo's muffled question.

"Dashed if I know. Say, have you agreed to marry me?"

"I think perhaps I have." Jo came up for air. After a long moonlit gaze at each other, the young lovers finally kissed.

We will leave them there, embracing in the spring moonlight. Laurie might not mind if I told more, but Jo is no doubt vexed that we've come as far as we already have.

There was a wedding, small and simple, and there was a year in Paris, splendid and joyous and so full of both scrapes and larks that it deserves a book unto itself someday. And after that, there was a happily ever after.