"Girls, where are you going?" asked Amy, coming into theirroom one Saturday afternoon, and finding them getting ready togo out with an air of secrecy which excited her curiosity.

"Never mind. Little girls shouldn't ask questions," returnedJo sharply.

Now if there is anything mortifying to our feelings when weare young, it is to be told that, and to be bidden to "run away,dear" is still more trying to us. Amy bridled up at this insult,and determined to find out the secret, if she teased for an hour.Turning to Meg, who never refused her anything very long, she saidcoaxingly, "Do tell me! I should think you might let me go, too,for Beth is fussing over her piano, and I haven't got anything todo, and am so lonely."

"I can't, dear, because you aren't invited," began Meg, butJo broke in impatiently, "Now, Meg, be quiet or you will spoil itall. You can't go, Amy, so don't be a baby and whine about it."

"You are going somewhere with Laurie, I know you are. Youwere whispering and laughing together on the sofa last night, andyou stopped when I came in. Aren't you going with him?"

"Yes, we are. Now do be still, and stop bothering."

Amy held her tongue, but used her eyes, and saw Meg slip afan into her pocket.

"Just listen to me a minute, and be a good child," said Megsoothingly. "Mother doesn't wish you to go this week, becauseyour eyes are not well enough yet to bear the light of thisfairy piece. Next week you can go with Beth and Hannah, andhave a nice time."

"I don't like that half as well as going with you and Laurie.Please let me. I've been sick with this cold so long, and shutup, I'm dying for some fun. Do, Meg! I'll be ever so good,"pleaded Amy, looking as pathetic as she could.

"Suppose we take her. I don't believe Mother would mind,if we bundle her up well," began Meg.

"If she goes I shan't, and if I don't, Laurie won't like it,and it will be very rude, after he invited only us, to go anddrag in Amy. I should think she'd hate to poke herself whereshe isn't wanted," said Jo crossly, for she disliked the troubleof overseeing a fidgety child when she wanted to enjoy herself.

Her tone and manner angered Amy, who began to put her bootson, saying, in her most aggravating way, "I shall go. Meg says Imay, and if I pay for myself, Laurie hasn't anything to do with it."

"You can't sit with us, for our seats are reserved, and youmustn't sit alone, so Laurie will give you his place, and thatwill spoil our pleasure. Or he'll get another seat for you, andthat isn't proper when you weren't asked. You shan't stir astep, so you may just stay where you are," scolded Jo, crosserthan ever, having just pricked her finger in her hurry.

Sitting on the floor with one boot on, Amy began to cryand Meg to reason with her, when Laurie called from below, andthe two girls hurried down, leaving their sister wailing. Fornow and then she forgot her grown-up ways and acted like aspoiled child. Just as the party was setting out, Amy calledover the banisters in a threatening tone, "You'll be sorry forthis, Jo March, see if you ain't."

"Fiddlesticks!" returned Jo, slamming the door.

They had a charming time, for _The Seven Castles Of TheDiamond Lake_ was as brilliant and wonderful as heart could wish.But in spite of the comical red imps, sparkling elves, and thegorgeous princes and princesses, Jo's pleasure had a drop ofbitterness in it. The fairy queen's yellow curls reminded herof Amy, and between the acts she amused herself with wonderingwhat her sister would do to make her 'sorry for it'. She andAmy had had many lively skirmishes in the course of their lives,for both had quick tempers and were apt to be violent when fairlyroused. Amy teased Jo, and Jo irritated Amy, and semioccasionalexplosions occurred, of which both were much ashamed afterward.Although the oldest, Jo had the least self-control, and had hardtimes trying to curb the fiery spirit which was continually gettingher into trouble. Her anger never lasted long, and having humblyconfessed her fault, she sincerely repented and tried to do better.Her sisters used to say that they rather liked to get Jo into afury because she was such an angel afterward. Poor Jo trieddesperately to be good, but her bosom enemy was always ready toflame up and defeat her, and it took years of patient effort tosubdue it.

When they got home, they found Amy reading in the parlor.She assumed an injured air as they came in, never lifted her eyesfrom her book, or asked a single question. Perhaps curiositymight have conquered resentment, if Beth had not been there toinquire and receive a glowing description of the play. On goingup to put away her best hat, Jo's first look was toward thebureau, for in their last quarrel Amy had soothed her feelingsby turning Jo's top drawer upside down on the floor. Everythingwas in its place, however, and after a hasty glance into hervarious closets, bags, and boxes, Jo decided that Amy hadforgiven and forgotten her wrongs.

There Jo was mistaken, for next day she made a discoverywhich produced a tempest. Meg, Beth, and Amy were sitting together,late in the afternoon, when Jo burst into the room, looking excitedand demanding breathlessly, "Has anyone taken my book?"

Meg and Beth said, "No." at once, and looked surprised. Amypoked the fire and said nothing. Jo saw her color rise and wasdown upon her in a minute.

"Amy, you've got it!"

"No, I haven't."

"You know where it is, then!"

"No, I don't."

"That's a fib!" cried Jo, taking her by the shoulders, andlooking fierce enough to frighten a much braver child than Amy.

"It isn't. I haven't got it, don't know where it is now, anddon't care."

"You know something about it, and you'd better tell at once,or I'll make you." And Jo gave her a slight shake.

"Scold as much as you like, you'll never see your silly oldbook again," cried Amy, getting excited in her turn.

"Why not?"

"I burned it up."

"What! My little book I was so fond of, and worked over, andmeant to finish before Father got home? Have you really burned it?"said Jo, turning very pale, while her eyes kindled and her handsclutched Amy nervously.

"Yes, I did! I told you I'd make you pay for being so crossyesterday, and I have, so . . ."

Amy got no farther, for Jo's hot temper mastered her, andshe shook Amy till her teeth chattered in her head, crying in apassion of grief and anger . . .

"You wicked, wicked girl! I never can write it again, andI'll never forgive you as long as I live."

Meg flew to rescue Amy, and Beth to pacify Jo, but Jo wasquite beside herself, and with a parting box on her sister's ear,she rushed out of the room up to the old sofa in the garret, andfinished her fight alone.

The storm cleared up below, for Mrs. March came home, and,having heard the story, soon brought Amy to a sense of the wrongshe had done her sister. Jo's book was the pride of her heart,and was regarded by her family as a literary sprout of greatpromise. It was only half a dozen little fairy tales, but Johad worked over them patiently, putting her whole heart intoher work, hoping to make something good enough to print. Shehad just copied them with great care, and had destroyed the oldmanuscript, so that Amy's bonfire had consumed the loving workof several years. It seemed a small loss to others, but to Joit was a dreadful calamity, and she felt that it never could bemade up to her. Beth mourned as for a departed kitten, and Megrefused to defend her pet. Mrs. March looked grave and grieved,and Amy felt that no one would love her till she had asked pardonfor the act which she now regretted more than any of them.

When the tea bell rang, Jo appeared, looking so grim andunapproachable that it took all Amy's courage to say meekly . . .

"Please forgive me, Jo. I'm very, very sorry."

"I never shall forgive you," was Jo's stern answer, andfrom that moment she ignored Amy entirely.

No one spoke of the great trouble, not even Mrs. March, forall had learned by experience that when Jo was in that mood wordswere wasted, and the wisest course was to wait till some littleaccident, or her own generous nature, softened Jo's resentmentand healed the breach. It was not a happy evening, for thoughthey sewed as usual, while their mother read aloud from Bremer,Scott, or Edgeworth, something was wanting, and the sweet homepeace was disturbed. They felt this most when singing time came,for Beth could only play, Jo stood dumb as a stone, and Amy brokedown, so Meg and Mother sang alone. But in spite of their effortsto be as cheery as larks, the flutelike voices did not seem tochord as well as usual, and all felt out of tune.

As Jo received her good-night kiss, Mrs. March whispered gently,"My dear, don't let the sun go down upon your anger. Forgive eachother, help each other, and begin again tomorrow."

Jo wanted to lay her head down on that motherly bosom, andcry her grief and anger all away, but tears were an unmanlyweakness, and she felt so deeply injured that she really couldn'tquite forgive yet. So she winked hard, shook her head, and saidgruffly because Amy was listening, "It was an abominable thing,and she doesn't deserve to be forgiven."

With that she marched off to bed, and there was no merryor confidential gossip that night.

Amy was much offended that her overtures of peace had beenrepulsed, and began to wish she had not humbled herself, to feelmore injured than ever, and to plume herself on her superiorvirtue in a way which was particularly exasperating. Jo stilllooked like a thunder cloud, and nothing went well all day. Itwas bitter cold in the morning, she dropped her precious turnoverin the gutter, Aunt March had an attack of the fidgets, Meg wassensitive, Beth would look grieved and wistful when she got home,and Amy kept making remarks about people who were always talkingabout being good and yet wouldn't even try when other people setthem a virtuous example.

"Everybody is so hateful, I'll ask Laurie to go skating. Heis always kind and jolly, and will put me to rights, I know," saidJo to herself, and off she went.

Amy heard the clash of skates, and looked out with an impatientexclamation.

"There! She promised I should go next time, for this is thelast ice we shall have. But it's no use to ask such a crosspatchto take me."

"Don't say that. You were very naughty, and it is hard toforgive the loss of her precious little book, but I think shemight do it now, and I guess she will, if you try her at theright minute," said Meg. "Go after them. Don't say anything tillJo has got good-natured with Laurie, than take a quiet minute andjust kiss her, or do some kind thing, and I'm sure she'll befriends again with all her heart."

"I'll try," said Amy, for the advice suited her, and after aflurry to get ready, she ran after the friends, who were justdisappearing over the hill.

It was not far to the river, but both were ready before Amyreached them. Jo saw her coming, and turned her back. Laurie didnot see, for he was carefully skating along the shore, sounding theice, for a warm spell had preceded the cold snap.

"I'll go on to the first bend, and see if it's all right beforewe begin to race," Amy heard him say, as he shot away, looking likea young Russian in his fur-trimmed coat and cap.

Jo heard Amy panting after her run, stamping her feet andblowing on her fingers as she tried to put her skates on, but Jonever turned and went slowly zigzagging down the river, taking abitter, unhappy sort of satisfaction in her sister's troubles.She had cherished her anger till it grew strong and took possessionof her, as evil thoughts and feelings always do unless cast out atonce. As Laurie turned the bend, he shouted back . . .

"Keep near the shore. It isn't safe in the middle."Jo heard, but Amy was struggling to her feet and did not catcha word. Jo glanced over her shoulder, and the little demon she washarboring said in her ear . . .

"No matter whether she heard or not, let her take care ofherself."

Laurie had vanished round the bend, Jo was just at the turn,and Amy, far behind, striking out toward the smoother ice inthe middle of the river. For a minute Jo stood still with astrange feeling in her heart, then she resolved to go on, butsomething held and turned her round, just in time to see Amy throwup her hands and go down, with a sudden crash of rotten ice, thesplash of water, and a cry that made Jo's heart stand still withfear. She tried to call Laurie, but her voice was gone. She triedto rush forward, but her feet seemed to have no strength in them,and for a second, she could only stand motionless, staring with aterror-stricken face at the little blue hood above the black water.Something rushed swiftly by her, and Laurie's voice cried out . . .

"Bring a rail. Quick, quick!"

How she did it, she never knew, but for the next few minutesshe worked as if possessed, blindly obeying Laurie, who was quiteself-possessed, and lying flat, held Amy up by his arm and hockeystick till Jo dragged a rail from the fence, and together theygot the child out, more frightened than hurt.

"Now then, we must walk her home as fast as we can. Pile ourthings on her, while I get off these confounded skates," criedLaurie, wrapping his coat round Amy, and tugging away at the strapswhich never seemed so intricate before.

Shivering, dripping, and crying, they got Amy home, and after anexciting time of it, she fell asleep, rolled in blankets before ahot fire. During the bustle Jo had scarcely spoken but flown about,looking pale and wild, with her things half off, her dress torn, andher hands cut and bruised by ice and rails and refractory buckles.When Amy was comfortably asleep, the house quiet, and Mrs. Marchsitting by the bed, she called Jo to her and began to bind up thehurt hands.

"Are you sure she is safe?" whispered Jo, looking remorsefullyat the golden head, which might have been swept away from her sightforever under the treacherous ice.

"Quite safe, dear. She is not hurt, and won't even take cold,I think, you were so sensible in covering and getting her homequickly," replied her mother cheerfully.

"Laurie did it all. I only let her go. Mother, if she shoulddie, it would be my fault." And Jo dropped down beside the bed ina passion of penitent tears, telling all that had happened, bitterlycondemning her hardness of heart, and sobbing out her gratitude forbeing spared the heavy punishment which might have come upon her.

"It's my dreadful temper! I try to cure it, I think I have,and then it breaks out worse than ever. Oh, Mother, what shall Ido? What shall I do?" cried poor Jo, in despair.

"Watch and pray, dear, never get tired of trying, and neverthink it is impossible to conquer your fault," said Mrs. March,drawing the blowzy head to her shoulder and kissing the wet cheekso tenderly that Jo cried even harder.

"You don't know, you can't guess how bad it is! It seems asif I could do anything when I'm in a passion. I get so savage, Icould hurt anyone and enjoy it. I'm afraid I shall do somethingdreadful some day, and spoil my life, and make everybody hate me.Oh, Mother, help me, do help me!"

"I will, my child, I will. Don't cry so bitterly, but rememberthis day, and resolve with all your soul that you will never knowanother like it. Jo, dear, we all have our temptations, some fargreater than yours, and it often takes us all our lives to conquerthem. You think your temper is the worst in the world, but mineused to be just like it."

"Yours, Mother? Why, you are never angry!" And for themoment Jo forgot remorse in surprise.

"I've been trying to cure it for forty years, and have onlysucceeded in controlling it. I am angry nearly every day of mylife, Jo, but I have learned not to show it, and I still hope tolearn not to feel it, though it may take me another forty yearsto do so."

The patience and the humility of the face she loved so wellwas a better lesson to Jo than the wisest lecture, the sharpestreproof. She felt comforted at once by the sympathy and confidencegiven her. The knowledge that her mother had a fault likehers, and tried to mend it, made her own easier to bear andstrengthened her resolution to cure it, though forty years seemedrather a long time to watch and pray to a girl of fifteen.

"Mother, are you angry when you fold your lips tight togetherand go out of the room sometimes, when Aunt March scolds or peopleworry you?" asked Jo, feeling nearer and dearer to her motherthan ever before.

"Yes, I've learned to check the hasty words that rise to mylips, and when I feel that they mean to break out against my will,I just go away for a minute, and give myself a little shake forbeing so weak and wicked," answered Mrs. March with a sigh and asmile, as she smoothed and fastened up Jo's disheveled hair.

"How did you learn to keep still? That is what troubles me,for the sharp words fly out before I know what I'm about, and themore I say the worse I get, till it's a pleasure to hurt people'sfeelings and say dreadful things. Tell me how you do it, Marmeedear."

"My good mother used to help me . . ."

"As you do us . . ." interrupted Jo, with a grateful kiss.

"But I lost her when I was a little older than you are, andfor years had to struggle on alone, for I was too proud to confessmy weakness to anyone else. I had a hard time, Jo, and shed a goodmany bitter tears over my failures, for in spite of my efforts Inever seemed to get on. Then your father came, and I was so happythat I found it easy to be good. But by-and-by, when I had fourlittle daughters round me and we were poor, then the old troublebegan again, for I am not patient by nature, and it tried me verymuch to see my children wanting anything."

"Poor Mother! What helped you then?"

"Your father, Jo. He never loses patience, never doubts orcomplains, but always hopes, and works and waits so cheerfullythat one is ashamed to do otherwise before him. He helped andcomforted me, and showed me that I must try to practice all thevirtues I would have my little girls possess, for I was theirexample. It was easier to try for your sakes than for my own.A startled or surprised look from one of you when I spoke sharplyrebuked me more than any words could have done, and the love,respect, and confidence of my children was the sweetest reward Icould receive for my efforts to be the woman I would have themcopy."

"Oh, Mother, if I'm ever half as good as you, I shall besatisfied," cried Jo, much touched.

"I hope you will be a great deal better, dear, but you mustkeep watch over your 'bosom enemy', as father calls it, or itmay sadden, if not spoil your life. You have had a warning.Remember it, and try with heart and soul to master this quicktemper, before it brings you greater sorrow and regret than youhave known today."

"I will try, Mother, I truly will. But you must help me,remind me, and keep me from flying out. I used to see Fathersometimes put his finger on his lips, and look at you with avery kind but sober face, and you always folded your lips tightand went away. Was he reminding you then?" asked Jo softly.

"Yes. I asked him to help me so, and he never forgot it,but saved me from many a sharp word by that little gestureand kind look."

Jo saw that her mother's eyes filled and her lips trembledas she spoke, and fearing that she had said too much, shewhispered anxiously, "Was it wrong to watch you and to speak ofit? I didn't mean to be rude, but it's so comfortable to say allI think to you, and feel so safe and happy here."

"My Jo, you may say anything to your mother, for it is mygreatest happiness and pride to feel that my girls confide in meand know how much I love them."

"I thought I'd grieved you."

"No, dear, but speaking of Father reminded me how much Imiss him, how much I owe him, and how faithfully I should watchand work to keep his little daughters safe and good for him."

"Yet you told him to go, Mother, and didn't cry when hewent, and never complain now, or seem as if you needed any help,"said Jo, wondering.

"I gave my best to the country I love, and kept my tearstill he was gone. Why should I complain, when we both havemerely done our duty and will surely be the happier for it inthe end? If I don't seem to need help, it is because I have abetter friend, even than Father, to comfort and sustain me. Mychild, the troubles and temptations of your life are beginningand may be many, but you can overcome and outlive them all ifyou learn to feel the strength and tenderness of your HeavenlyFather as you do that of your earthly one. The more you loveand trust Him, the nearer you will feel to Him, and the less youwill depend on human power and wisdom. His love and care nevertire or change, can never be taken from you, but may become thesource of lifelong peace, happiness, and strength. Believe thisheartily, and go to God with all your little cares, and hopes, and sins, and sorrows, as freely and confidingly as you come toyour mother."

Jo's only answer was to hold her mother close, and in thesilence which followed the sincerest prayer she had ever prayedleft her heart without words. For in that sad yet happy hour,she had learned not only the bitterness of remorse and despair,but the sweetness of self-denial and self-control, and led byher mother's hand, she had drawn nearer to the Friend who alwayswelcomes every child with a love stronger than that of any father,tenderer than that of any mother.

Amy stirred and sighed in her sleep, and as if eager to beginat once to mend her fault, Jo looked up with an expression on herface which it had never worn before.

"I let the sun go down on my anger. I wouldn't forgive her,and today, if it hadn't been for Laurie, it might have been toolate! How could I be so wicked?" said Jo, half aloud, as sheleaned over her sister softly stroking the wet hair scattered onthe pillow.

As if she heard, Amy opened her eyes, and held out her arms,with a smile that went straight to Jo's heart. Neither said aword, but they hugged one another close, in spite of the blankets,and everything was forgiven and forgotten in one hearty kiss.