"I do think it was the most fortunate thing in the world thatthose children should have the measles just now," said Meg, oneApril day, as she stood packing the 'go abroady' trunk in her room,surrounded by her sisters.

"And so nice of Annie Moffat not to forget her promise. Awhole fortnight of fun will be regularly splendid," replied Jo,looking like a windmill as she folded skirts with her long arms.

"And such lovely weather, I'm so glad of that," added Beth,tidily sorting neck and hair ribbons in her best box, lent forthe great occasion.

"I wish I was going to have a fine time and wear all thesenice things," said Amy with her mouth full of pins, as sheartistically replenished her sister's cushion.

"I wish you were all going, but as you can't, I shall keepmy adventures to tell you when I come back. I'm sure it's theleast I can do when you have been so kind, lending me thingsand helping me get ready," said Meg, glancing round the roomat the very simple outfit, which seemed nearly perfect in theireyes.

"What did Mother give you out of the treasure box?" askedAmy, who had not been present at the opening of a certain cedarchest in which Mrs. March kept a few relics of past splendor, asgifts for her girls when the proper time came.

"A pair of silk stockings, that pretty carved fan, and alovely blue sash. I wanted the violet silk, but there isn'ttime to make it over, so I must be contented with my old tarlaton."

"It will look nice over my new muslin skirt, and the sash willset it off beautifully. I wish I hadn't smashed my coral bracelet,for you might have had it," said Jo, who loved to give and lend,but whose possessions were usually too dilapidated to be of muchuse.

"There is a lovely old-fashioned pearl set in the treasurechest, but Mother said real flowers were the prettiest ornamentfor a young girl, and Laurie promised to send me all I want,"replied Meg. "Now, let me see, there's my new gray walking suit,just curl up the feather in my hat, Beth, then my poplin forSunday and the small party, it looks heavy for spring, doesn'tit? The violet silk would be so nice. Oh, dear!"

"Never mind, you've got the tarlaton for the big party, andyou always look like an angel in white," said Amy, broodingover the little store of finery in which her soul delighted.

"It isn't low-necked, and it doesn't sweep enough, but itwill have to do. My blue housedress looks so well, turned andfreshly trimmed, that I feel as if I'd got a new one. My silksacque isn't a bit the fashion, and my bonnet doesn't look likeSallie's. I didn't like to say anything, but I was sadlydisappointed in my umbrella. I told Mother black with a whitehandle, but she forgot and bought a green one with a yellowishhandle. It's strong and neat, so I ought not to complain, but Iknow I shall feel ashamed of it beside Annie's silk one with agold top," sighed Meg, surveying the little umbrella with greatdisfavor.

"Change it," advised Jo.

"I won't be so silly, or hurt Marmee's feelings, when shetook so much pains to get my things. It's a nonsensical notionof mine, and I'm not going to give up to it. My silk stockingsand two pairs of new gloves are my comfort. You are a dear tolend me yours, Jo. I feel so rich and sort of elegant, withtwo new pairs, and the old ones cleaned up for common." AndMeg took a refreshing peep at her glove box.

"Annie Moffat has blue and pink bows on her nightcaps.Would you put some on mine?" she asked, as Beth brought up apile of snowy muslins, fresh from Hannah's hands.

"No, I wouldn't, for the smart caps won't match the plaingowns without any trimming on them. Poor folks shouldn't rig,"said Jo decidedly.

"I wonder if I shall ever be happy enough to have real laceon my clothes and bows on my caps?" said Meg impatiently.

"You said the other day that you'd be perfectly happy ifyou could only go to Annie Moffat's," observed Beth in her quietway.

"So I did! Well, I am happy, and I won't fret, but it doesseem as if the more one gets the more one wants, doesn't it? Therenow, the trays are ready, and everything in but my ball dress,which I shall leave for Mother to pack," said Meg, cheering up, asshe glanced from the half-filled trunk to the many times pressedand mended white tarlaton, which she called her 'ball dress' withan important air.

The next day was fine, and Meg departed in style for a fortnightof novelty and pleasure. Mrs. March had consented to thevisit rather reluctantly, fearing that Margaret would come backmore discontented than she went. But she begged so hard, andSallie had promised to take good care of her, and a little pleasureseemed so delightful after a winter of irksome work that the motheryielded, and the daughter went to take her first taste of fashionable life.

The Moffats were very fashionable, and simple Meg was ratherdaunted, at first, by the splendor of the house and the eleganceof its occupants. But they were kindly people, in spite of thefrivolous life they led, and soon put their guest at her ease.Perhaps Meg felt, without understanding why, that they were notparticularly cultivated or intelligent people, and that all theirgilding could not quite conceal the ordinary material of whichthey were made. It certainly was agreeable to fare sumptuously,drive in a fine carriage, wear her best frock every day, and donothing but enjoy herself. It suited her exactly, and soon shebegan to imitate the manners and conversation of those about her,to put on little airs and graces, use French phrases, crimp herhair, take in her dresses, and talk about the fashions as well asshe could. The more she saw of Annie Moffat's pretty things, themore she envied her and sighed to be rich. Home now looked bareand dismal as she thought of it, work grew harder than ever, andshe felt that she was a very destitute and much-injured girl, inspite of the new gloves and silk stockings.

She had not much time for repining, however, for the threeyoung girls were busily employed in 'having a good time'. Theyshopped, walked, rode, and called all day, went to theaters andoperas or frolicked at home in the evening, for Annie had manyfriends and knew how to entertain them. Her older sisters werevery fine young ladies, and one was engaged, which was extremelyinteresting and romantic, Meg thought. Mr. Moffat was a fat,jolly old gentleman, who knew her father, and Mrs. Moffat, a fat,jolly old lady, who took as great a fancy to Meg as her daughterhad done. Everyone petted her, and 'Daisey', as they called her,was in a fair way to have her head turned.

When the evening for the small party came, she found thatthe poplin wouldn't do at all, for the other girls were puttingon thin dresses and making themselves very fine indeed. So outcame the tarlatan, looking older, limper, and shabbier than everbeside Sallie's crisp new one. Meg saw the girls glance at itand then at one another, and her cheeks began to burn, for withall her gentleness she was very proud. No one said a word aboutit, but Sallie offered to dress her hair, and Annie to tie hersash, and Belle, the engaged sister, praised her white arms. Butin their kindness Meg saw only pity for her poverty, and herheart felt very heavy as she stood by herself, while the otherslaughed, chattered, and flew about like gauzy butterflies. Thehard, bitter feeling was getting pretty bad, when the maidbrought in a box of flowers. Before she could speak, Annie hadthe cover off, and all were exclaiming at the lovely roses, heath,and fern within.

"It's for Belle, of course, George always sends her some,but these are altogether ravishing," cried Annie, with a greatsniff.

"They are for Miss March, the man said. And here's a note,"put in the maid, holding it to Meg.

"What fun! Who are they from? Didn't know you had a lover,"cried the girls, fluttering about Meg in a high state of curiosityand surprise.

"The note is from Mother, and the flowers from Laurie," saidMeg simply, yet much gratified that he had not forgotten her.

"Oh, indeed!" said Annie with a funny look, as Meg slippedthe note into her pocket as a sort of talisman against envy,vanity, and false pride, for the few loving words had done hergood, and the flowers cheered her up by their beauty.

Feeling almost happy again, she laid by a few ferns and rosesfor herself, and quickly made up the rest in dainty bouquets forthe breasts, hair, or skirts of her friends, offering them soprettily that Clara, the elder sister, told her she was 'thesweetest little thing she ever saw', and they looked quitecharmed with her small attention. Somehow the kind act finishedher despondency, and when all the rest went to show themselvesto Mrs. Moffat, she saw a happy, bright-eyed face in the mirror,as she laid her ferns against her rippling hair and fastenedthe roses in the dress that didn't strike her as so very shabbynow.

She enjoyed herself very much that evening, for she dancedto her heart's content. Everyone was very kind, and she hadthree compliments. Annie made her sing, and some one said shehad a remarkably fine voice. Major Lincoln asked who 'the freshlittle girl with the beautiful eyes' was, and Mr. Moffat insistedon dancing with her because she 'didn't dawdle, but had some springin her', as he gracefully expressed it. So altogether she had avery nice time, till she overheard a bit of conversation, whichdisturbed her extremely. She was sitting just inside theconservatory, waiting for her partner to bring her an ice, when sheheard a voice ask on the other side of the flowery wall . . .

"How old is he?"

"Sixteen or seventeen, I should say," replied another voice.

"It would be a grand thing for one of those girls, wouldn'tit? Sallie says they are very intimate now, and the old man quitedotes on them."

"Mrs. M. has made her plans, I dare say, and will play hercards well, early as it is. The girl evidently doesn't think of ityet," said Mrs. Moffat.

"She told that fib about her momma, as if she did know, andcolored up when the flowers came quite prettily. Poor thing!She'd be so nice if she was only got up in style. Do you thinkshe'd be offended if we offered to lend her a dress for Thursday?"asked another voice.

"She's proud, but I don't believe she'd mind, for that dowdytarlaton is all she has got. She may tear it tonight, and thatwill be a good excuse for offering a decent one."

Here Meg's partner appeared, to find her looking much flushedand rather agitated. She was proud, and her pride was usefuljust then, for it helped her hide her mortification, anger, anddisgust at what she had just heard. For, innocent and unsuspiciousas she was, she could not help understanding the gossip of herfriends. She tried to forget it, but could not, and kept repeatingto herself, "Mrs. M. has made her plans," "that fib about hermamma," and "dowdy tarlaton," till she was ready to cry and rushhome to tell her troubles and ask for advice. As that was impossible,she did her best to seem gay, and being rather excited, shesucceeded so well that no one dreamed what an effort she was making.She was very glad when it was all over and she was quiet in her bed,where she could think and wonder and fume till her head ached andher hot cheeks were cooled by a few natural tears. Those foolish,yet well meant words, had opened a new world to Meg, and muchdisturbed the peace of the old one in which till now she had livedas happily as a child. Her innocent friendship with Laurie wasspoiled by the silly speeches she had overheard. Her faith in hermother was a little shaken by the worldly plans attributed to herby Mrs. Moffat, who judged others by herself, and the sensibleresolution to be contented with the simple wardrobe which suiteda poor man's daughter was weakened by the unnecessary pity ofgirls who thought a shabby dress one of the greatest calamitiesunder heaven.

Poor Meg had a restless night, and got up heavy-eyed, unhappy,half resentful toward her friends, and half ashamed of herself fornot speaking out frankly and setting everything right. Everybodydawdled that morning, and it was noon before the girls foundenergy enough even to take up their worsted work. Something inthe manner of her friends struck Meg at once. They treated herwith more respect, she thought, took quite a tender interest inwhat she said, and looked at her with eyes that plainly betrayedcuriosity. All this surprised and flattered her, though she didnot understand it till Miss Belle looked up from her writing, andsaid, with a sentimental air . . .

"Daisy, dear, I've sent an invitation to your friend, Mr.Laurence, for Thursday. We should like to know him, and it's onlya proper compliment to you."

Meg colored, but a mischievous fancy to tease the girls madeher reply demurely, "You are very kind, but I'm afraid he won'tcome."

"Why not, Cherie?" asked Miss Belle.

"He's too old."

"My child, what do you mean? What is his age, I beg toknow!" cried Miss Clara.

"Nearly seventy, I believe," answered Meg, counting stitchesto hide the merriment in her eyes.

"You sly creature! Of course we meant the young man,"exclaimed Miss Belle, laughing.

"There isn't any, Laurie is only a little boy." And Meglaughed also at the queer look which the sisters exchanged as shethus described her supposed lover.

"About your age," Nan said.

"Nearer my sister Jo's; I am seventeen in August," returnedMeg, tossing her head.

"It's very nice of him to send you flowers, isn't it?" saidAnnie, looking wise about nothing.

"Yes, he often does, to all of us, for their house is full, andwe are so fond of them. My mother and old Mr. Laurence are friends,you know, so it is quite natural that we children should play together," and Meg hoped they would say no more.

"It's evident Daisy isn't out yet," said Miss Clara to Belle with a nod.

"Quite a pastoral state of innocence all round," returnedMiss Belle with a shrug.

"I'm going out to get some little matters for my girls. CanI do anything for you, young ladies?" asked Mrs. Moffat, lumberingin like an elephant in silk and lace.

"No, thank you, ma'am," replied Sallie. "I've got my newpink silk for Thursday and don't want a thing."

"Nor I . . ." began Meg, but stopped because it occurred toher that she did want several things and could not have them.

"What shall you wear?" asked Sallie.

"My old white one again, if I can mend it fit to be seen, itgot sadly torn last night," said Meg, trying to speak quite easily,but feeling very uncomfortable.

"Why don't you send home for another?" said Sallie, who wasnot an observing young lady.

"I haven't got any other." It cost Meg an effort to say that,but Sallie did not see it and exclaimed in amiable surprise, "Onlythat? How funny . . ." She did not finish her speech, for Belleshook her head at her and broke in, saying kindly . . .

"Not at all. Where is the use of having a lot of dresseswhen she isn't out yet? There's no need of sending home, Daisy,even if you had a dozen, for I've got a sweet blue silk laid away,which I've outgrown, and you shall wear it to please me, won'tyou, dear?"

"You are very kind, but I don't mind my old dress if youdon't, it does well enough for a little girl like me," said Meg.

"Now do let me please myself by dressing you up in style.I admire to do it, and you'd be a regular little beauty with atouch here and there. I shan't let anyone see you till you aredone, and then we'll burst upon them like Cinderella and hergodmother going to the ball," said Belle in her persuasive tone.

Meg couldn't refuse the offer so kindly made, for a desire tosee if she would be 'a little beauty' after touching up causedher to accept and forget all her former uncomfortable feelingstoward the Moffats.

On the Thursday evening, Belle shut herself up with her maid,and between them they turned Meg into a fine lady. They crimpedand curled her hair, they polished her neck and arms with somefragrant powder, touched her lips with coralline salve to makethem redder, and Hortense would have added 'a soupcon of rouge',if Meg had not rebelled. They laced her into a sky-blue dress,which was so tight she could hardly breathe and so low in theneck that modest Meg blushed at herself in the mirror. A setof silver filagree was added, bracelets, necklace, brooch, andeven earrings, for Hortense tied them on with a bit of pinksilk which did not show. A cluster of tea-rose buds at thebosom, and a ruche, reconciled Meg to the display of her pretty,white shoulders, and a pair of high-heeled silk boots satisfiedthe last wish of her heart. A lace handkerchief, a plumy fan,and a bouquet in a shoulder holder finished her off, and MissBelle surveyed her with the satisfaction of a little girl witha newly dressed doll.

"Mademoiselle is charmante, tres jolie, is she not?" criedHortense, clasping her hands in an affected rapture.

"Come and show yourself," said Miss Belle, leading the wayto the room where the others were waiting.

As Meg went rustling after, with her long skirts trailing,her earrings tinkling, her curls waving, and her heart beating,she felt as if her fun had really begun at last, for the mirrorhad plainly told her that she was 'a little beauty'. Her friendsrepeated the pleasing phrase enthusiastically, and for severalminutes she stood, like a jackdaw in the fable, enjoying herborrowed plumes, while the rest chattered like a party of magpies.

"While I dress, do you drill her, Nan, in the management of herskirt and those French heels, or she will trip herself up. Takeyour silver butterfly, and catch up that long curl on the left sideof her head, Clara, and don't any of you disturb the charming workof my hands," said Belle, as she hurried away, looking well pleasedwith her success.

"You don't look a bit like yourself, but you are very nice.I'm nowhere beside you, for Belle has heaps of taste, and you'requite French, I assure you. Let your flowers hang, don't be socareful of them, and be sure you don't trip," returned Sallie, tryingnot to care that Meg was prettier than herself.

Keeping that warning carefully in mind, Margaret got safelydown stairs and sailed into the drawing rooms where the Moffats anda few early guests were assembled. She very soon discovered thatthere is a charm about fine clothes which attracts a certain classof people and secures their respect. Several young ladies, whohad taken no notice of her before, were very affectionate all ofa sudden. Several young gentlemen, who had only stared at her atthe other party, now not only stared, but asked to be introduced,and said all manner of foolish but agreeable things to her, andseveral old ladies, who sat on the sofas, and criticized the restof the party, inquired who she was with an air of interest. Sheheard Mrs. Moffat reply to one of them . . .

"Daisy March - father a colonel in the army - one of our firstfamilies, but reverses of fortune, you know; intimate friends ofthe Laurences; sweet creature, I assure you; my Ned is quite wildabout her."

"Dear me!" said the old lady, putting up her glass foranother observation of Meg, who tried to look as if she had notheard and been rather shocked at Mrs. Moffat's fibs.The 'queer feeling' did not pass away, but she imaginedherself acting the new part of fine lady and so got on prettywell, though the tight dress gave her a side-ache, the train keptgetting under her feet, and she was in constant fear lest herearrings should fly off and get lost or broken. She was flirtingher fan and laughing at the feeble jokes of a young gentlemanwho tried to be witty, when she suddenly stopped laughing andlooked confused, for just opposite, she saw Laurie. He wasstaring at her with undisguised surprise, and disapproval also,she thought, for though he bowed and smiled, yet something inhis honest eyes made her blush and wish she had her old dress on.To complete her confusion, she saw Belle nudge Annie, and bothglance from her to Laurie, who, she was happy to see, lookedunusually boyish and shy.

"Silly creatures, to put such thoughts into my head. I won'tcare for it, or let it change me a bit," thought Meg, and rustledacross the room to shake hands with her friend.

"I'm glad you came, I was afraid you wouldn't." she said,with her most grown-up air.

"Jo wanted me to come, and tell her how you looked, so Idid," answered Laurie, without turning his eyes upon her, thoughhe half smiled at her maternal tone.

"What shall you tell her?" asked Meg, full of curiosity toknow his opinion of her, yet feeling ill at ease with him for thefirst time.

"I shall say I didn't know you, for you look so grown-up andunlike yourself, I'm quite afraid of you," he said, fumbling athis glove button.

"How absurd of you! The girls dressed me up for fun, and Irather like it. Wouldn't Jo stare if she saw me?" said Meg, benton making him say whether he thought her improved or not.

"Yes, I think she would," returned Laurie gravely.

"Don't you like me so?" asked Meg.

"No, I don't," was the blunt reply.

"Why not?" in an anxious tone.

He glanced at her frizzled head, bare shoulders, and fantasticallytrimmed dress with an expression that abashed her more thanhis answer, which had not a particle of his usual politeness in it.

"I don't like fuss and feathers."

That was altogether too much from a lad younger than herself,and Meg walked away, saying petulantly, "You are the rudest boy Iever saw."

Feeling very much ruffled, she went and stood at a quiet windowto cool her cheeks, for the tight dress gave her an uncomfortablybrilliant color. As she stood there, Major Lincoln passed by, anda minute after she heard him saying to his mother . . .

"They are making a fool of that little girl. I wanted youto see her, but they have spoiled her entirely. She's nothingbut a doll tonight."

"Oh, dear!" sighed Meg. "I wish I'd been sensible and wornmy own things, then I should not have disgusted other people, orfelt so uncomfortable and ashamed of myself."

She leaned her forehead on the cool pane, and stood halfhidden by the curtains, never minding that her favorite waltzhad begun, till some one touched her, and turning, she sawLaurie, looking penitent, as he said, with his very best bowand his hand out . . .

"Please forgive my rudeness, and come and dance with me."

"I'm afraid it will be too disagreeable to you," said Meg,trying to look offended and failing entirely.

"Not a bit of it, I'm dying to do it. Come, I'll be good.I don't like your gown, but I do think you are just splendid."And he waved his hands, as if words failed to express hisadmiration.

Meg smiled and relented, and whispered as they stood waitingto catch the time, "Take care my skirt doesn't trip you up. It'sthe plague of my life and I was a goose to wear it."

"Pin it round your neck, and then it will be useful," saidLaurie, looking down at the little blue boots, which he evidentlyapproved of.

Away they went fleetly and gracefully, for having practicedat home, they were well matched, and the blithe young couple werea pleasant sight to see, as they twirled merrily round and round,feeling more friendly than ever after their small tiff.

"Laurie, I want you to do me a favor, will you?" said Meg,as he stood fanning her when her breath gave out, which it didvery soon though she would not own why.

"Won't I!" said Laurie, with alacrity.

"Please don't tell them at home about my dress tonight.They won't understand the joke, and it will worry Mother."

"Then why did you do it?" said Laurie's eyes, so plainlythat Meg hastily added . . .

"I shall tell them myself all about it, and 'fess' to Motherhow silly I've been. But I'd rather do it myself. So you'll nottell, will you?"

"I give you my word I won't, only what shall I say whenthey ask me?"

"Just say I looked pretty well and was having a good time."

"I'll say the first with all my heart, but how about theother? You don't look as if you were having a good time. Areyou?" And Laurie looked at her with an expression which made heranswer in a whisper . . .

"No, not just now. Don't think I'm horrid. I only wanteda little fun, but this sort doesn't pay, I find, and I'm gettingtired of it."

"Here comes Ned Moffat. What does he want?" said Laurie,knitting his black brows as if he did not regard his young hostin the light of a pleasant addition to the party.

"He put his name down for three dances, and I suppose he'scoming for them. What a bore!" said Meg, assuming a languid airwhich amused Laurie immensely.

He did not speak to her again till suppertime, when he sawher drinking champagne with Ned and his friend Fisher, who werebehaving 'like a pair of fools', as Laurie said to himself, forhe felt a brotherly sort of right to watch over the Marches andfight their battles whenever a defender was needed.

"You'll have a splitting headache tomorrow, if you drinkmuch of that. I wouldn't, Meg, your mother doesn't like it, youknow," he whispered, leaning over her chair, as Ned turned torefill her glass and Fisher stooped to pick up her fan.

"I'm not Meg tonight, I'm 'a doll' who does all sorts ofcrazy things. Tomorrow I shall put away my 'fuss and feathers'and be desperately good again," she answered with an affectedlittle laugh.

"Wish tomorrow was here, then," muttered Laurie, walking off,ill-pleased at the change he saw in her.

Meg danced and flirted, chattered and giggled, as the othergirls did. After supper she undertook the German, and blunderedthrough it, nearly upsetting her partner with her long skirt, andromping in a way that scandalized Laurie, who looked on and meditateda lecture. But he got no chance to deliver it, for Meg kept awayfrom him till he came to say good night.

"Remember!" she said, trying to smile, for the splittingheadache had already begun.

"Silence a la mort," replied Laurie, with a melodramaticflourish, as he went away.

This little bit of byplay excited Annie's curiosity, but Megwas too tired for gossip and went to bed, feeling as if she hadbeen to a masquerade and hadn't enjoyed herself as much as sheexpected. She was sick all the next day, and on Saturday went home,quite used up with her fortnight's fun and feeling that she had'sat in the lap of luxury' long enough.

"It does seem pleasant to be quiet, and not have companymanners on all the time. Home is a nice place, though it isn'tsplendid," said Meg, looking about her with a restful expression,as she sat with her mother and Jo on the Sunday evening.

"I'm glad to hear you say so, dear, for I was afraid homewould seem dull and poor to you after your fine quarters," repliedher mother, who had given her many anxious looks that day. Formotherly eyes are quick to see any change in children's faces.

Meg had told her adventures gayly and said over and over whata charming time she had had, but something still seemed to weighupon her spirits, and when the younger girls were gone to bed, shesat thoughtfully staring at the fire, saying little and lookingworried. As the clock struck nine and Jo proposed bed, Megsuddenly left her chair and, taking Beth's stool, leaned her elbowson her mother's knee, saying bravely . . .

"Marmee, I want to 'fess'."

"I thought so. What is it, dear?"

"Shall I go away?" asked Jo discreetly.

"Of course not. Don't I always tell you everything? I wasashamed to speak of it before the younger children, but I want youto know all the dreadful things I did at the Moffats'."

"We are prepared," said Mrs. March, smiling but looking alittle anxious.

"I told you they dressed me up, but I didn't tell you thatthey powdered and squeezed and frizzled, and made me look like afashion-plate. Laurie thought I wasn't proper. I know he did,though he didn't say so, and one man called me 'a doll'. I knewit was silly, but they flattered me and said I was a beauty, andquantities of nonsense, so I let them make a fool of me."

"Is that all?" asked Jo, as Mrs. March looked silently atthe downcast face of her pretty daughter, and could not find itin her heart to blame her little follies.

"No, I drank champagne and romped and tried to flirt, andwas altogether abominable," said Meg self-reproachfully.

"There is something more, I think." And Mrs. March smoothedthe soft cheek, which suddenly grew rosy as Meg answered slowly . . .

"Yes. It's very silly, but I want to tell it, because I hateto have people say and think such things about us and Laurie."

Then she told the various bits of gossip she had heard at theMoffats', and as she spoke, Jo saw her mother fold her lips tightly,as if ill pleased that such ideas should be put into Meg's innocentmind.

"Well, if that isn't the greatest rubbish I ever heard," criedJo indignantly. "Why didn't you pop out and tell them so on thespot?"

"I couldn't, it was so embarrassing for me. I couldn't helphearing at first, and then I was so angry and ashamed, I didn'tremember that I ought to go away."

"Just wait till I see Annie Moffat, and I'll show you how tosettle such ridiculous stuff. The idea of having 'plans' and beingkind to Laurie because he's rich and may marry us by-and-by! Won'the shout when I tell him what those silly things say about us poorchildren?" And Jo laughed, as if on second thoughts the thingstruck her as a good joke.

"If you tell Laurie, I'll never forgive you! She mustn't,must she, Mother?" said Meg, looking distressed.

"No, never repeat that foolish gossip, and forget it as soonas you can," said Mrs. March gravely. "I was very unwise to letyou go among people of whom I know so little, kind, I dare say,but worldly, ill-bred, and full of these vulgar ideas about youngpeople. I am more sorry than I can express for the mischief thisvisit may have done you, Meg."

"Don't be sorry, I won't let it hurt me. I'll forget all thebad and remember only the good, for I did enjoy a great deal, andthank you very much for letting me go. I'll not be sentimental ordissatisfied, Mother. I know I'm a silly little girl, and I'llstay with you till I'm fit to take care of myself. But it is niceto be praised and admired, and I can't help saying I like it," saidMeg, looking half ashamed of the confession.

"That is perfectly natural, and quite harmless, if the likingdoes not become a passion and lead one to do foolish or unmaidenlythings. Learn to know and value the praise which is worth having,and to excite the admiration of excellent people by being modestas well as pretty, Meg."

Margaret sat thinking a moment, while Jo stood with her handsbehind her, looking both interested and a little perplexed, for itwas a new thing to see Meg blushing and talking about admiration,lovers, and things of that sort. And Jo felt as if during thatfortnight her sister had grown up amazingly, and was drifting awayfrom her into a world where she could not follow.

"Mother, do you have 'plans', as Mrs. Moffat said?" asked Megbashfully.

"Yes, my dear, I have a great many, all mothers do, but minediffer somewhat from Mrs. Moffat's, I suspect. I will tell yousome of them, for the time has come when a word may set thisromantic little head and heart of yours right, on a very serioussubject. You are young, Meg, but not too young to understand me,and mothers' lips are the fittest to speak of such things to girlslike you. Jo, your turn will come in time, perhaps, so listen tomy 'plans' and help me carry them out, if they are good."

Jo went and sat on one arm of the chair, looking as if shethought they were about to join in some very solemn affair.Holding a hand of each, and watching the two young faces wistfully,Mrs. March said, in her serious yet cheery way . . .

"I want my daughters to be beautiful, accomplished, and good.To be admired, loved, and respected. To have a happy youth, tobe well and wisely married, and to lead useful, pleasant lives,with as little care and sorrow to try them as God sees fit to send.To be loved and chosen by a good man is the best and sweetest thingwhich can happen to a woman, and I sincerely hope my girls mayknow this beautiful experience. It is natural to think of it, Meg,right to hope and wait for it, and wise to prepare for it, so thatwhen the happy time comes, you may feel ready for the duties andworthy of the joy. My dear girls, I am ambitious for you, but notto have you make a dash in the world, marry rich men merely becausethey are rich, or have splendid houses, which are not homes becauselove is wanting. Money is a needful and precious thing, and whenwell used, a noble thing, but I never want you to think it is thefirst or only prize to strive for. I'd rather see you poor men'swives, if you were happy, beloved, contented, than queens on thrones,without self-respect and peace."

"Poor girls don't stand any chance, Belle says, unless theyput themselves forward," sighed Meg.

"Then we'll be old maids," said Jo stoutly.

"Right, Jo. Better be happy old maids than unhappy wives, orunmaidenly girls, running about to find husbands," said Mrs. Marchdecidedly. "Don't be troubled, Meg, poverty seldom daunts a sincerelover. Some of the best and most honored women I know were poorgirls, but so love-worthy that they were not allowed to be old maids.Leave these things to time. Make this home happy, so that you maybe fit for homes of your own, if they are offered you, and contentedhere if they are not. One thing remember, my girls. Mother isalways ready to be your confidant, Father to be your friend, andboth of us hope and trust that our daughters, whether married or single, will be the pride and comfort of our lives."

"We will, Marmee, we will!" cried both, with all their hearts,as she bade them good night.