Though very happy in the social atmosphere about her, and very busywith the daily work that earned her bread and made it sweeter forthe effort, Jo still found time for literary labors. The purposewhich now took possession of her was a natural one to a poor andambitious girl, but the means she took to gain her end were not thebest. She saw that money conferred power, money and power,therefore, she resolved to have, not to be used for herself alone,but for those whom she loved more than life. The dream of fillinghome with comforts, giving Beth everything she wanted, fromstrawberries in winter to an organ in her bedroom, going abroadherself, and always having more than enough, so that she mightindulge in the luxury of charity, had been for years Jo's mostcherished castle in the air.

The prize-story experience had seemed to open a way whichmight, after long traveling and much uphill work, lead to thisdelightful chateau en Espagne. But the novel disaster quenchedher courage for a time, for public opinion is a giant which hasfrightened stouter-hearted Jacks on bigger beanstalks than hers.Like that immortal hero, she reposed awhile after the firstattempt, which resulted in a tumble and the least lovely of thegiant's treasures, if I remember rightly. But the 'up againand take another' spirit was as strong in Jo as in Jack, soshe scrambled up on the shady side this time and got morebooty, but nearly left behind her what was far more preciousthan the moneybags.

She took to writing sensation stories, for in those darkages, even all-perfect America read rubbish. She told no one,but concocted a 'thrilling tale', and boldly carried it herselfto Mr. Dashwood, editor of the Weekly Volcano. She hadnever read Sartor Resartus, but she had a womanly instinctthat clothes possess an influence more powerful over manythan the worth of character or the magic of manners. So shedressed herself in her best, and trying to persuade herselfthat she was neither excited nor nervous, bravely climbed twopairs of dark and dirty stairs to find herself in a disorderlyroom, a cloud of cigar smoke, and the presence of three gentlemen,sitting with their heels rather higher than their hats,which articles of dress none of them took the trouble to removeon her appearance. Somewhat daunted by this reception, Jo hesitatedon the threshold, murmuring in much embarrassment . . .

"Excuse me, I was looking for the Weekly Volcano office.I wished to see Mr. Dashwood."

Down went the highest pair of heels, up rose the smokiestgentleman, and carefully cherishing his cigar between hisfingers, he advanced with a nod and a countenance expressiveof nothing but sleep. Feeling that she must get through thematter somehow, Jo produced her manuscript and, blushingredder and redder with each sentence, blundered out fragmentsof the little speech carefully prepared for the occasion.

"A friend of mine desired me to offer - a story - just asan experiment - would like your opinion - be glad to write moreif this suits."

While she blushed and blundered, Mr. Dashwood had takenthe manuscript, and was turning over the leaves with a pairof rather dirty fingers, and casting critical glances up anddown the neat pages.

"Not a first attempt, I take it?" observing that thepages were numbered, covered only on one side, and not tiedup with a ribbon - sure sign of a novice.

"Oh, did she?" and Mr. Dashwood gave Jo a quick look,which seemed to take note of everything she had on, from thebow in her bonnet to the buttons on her boots. "Well, youcan leave it, if you like. We've more of this sort of thingon hand than we know what to do with at present, but I'll runmy eye over it, and give you an answer next week."

When she went again, Mr. Dashwood was alone, whereat sherejoiced. Mr. Dashwood was much wider awake than before,which was agreeable, and Mr. Dashwood was not too deeply absorbedin a cigar to remember his manners, so the secondinterview was much more comfortable than the first.

"We'll take this (editors never say I), if you don'tobject to a few alterations. It's too long, but omittingthe passages I've marked will make it just the right length,"he said, in a businesslike tone.

Jo hardly knew her own MS. again, so crumpled and underscoredwere its pages and paragraphs, but feeling as a tenderparent might on being asked to cut off her baby's legs inorder that it might fit into a new cradle, she looked at themarked passages and was surprised to find that all the moralreflections - which she had carefully put in as ballast formuch romance - had been stricken out.

"But, Sir, I thought every story should have some sort ofa moral, so I took care to have a few of my sinners repent."

Mr. Dashwoods's editorial gravity relaxed into a smile, forJo had forgotten her 'friend', and spoken as only an authorcould.

"People want to be amused, not preached at, you know. Moralsdon't sell nowadays." Which was not quite a correct statement,by the way.

"You think it would do with these alterations, then?"

"Yes, it's a new plot, and pretty well worked up - languagegood, and so on," was Mr. Dashwood's affable reply.

"What do you - that is, what compensation - " began Jo, notexactly knowing how to express herself.

"Oh, yes, well, we give from twenty-five to thirty forthings of this sort. Pay when it comes out," returned Mr. Dashwood,as if that point had escaped him. Such trifles do escapethe editorial mind, it is said.

"Very well, you can have it," said Jo, handing back thestory with a satisfied air, for after the dollar-a-column work,even twenty-five seemed good pay.

"Shall I tell my friend you will take another if she has onebetter than this?" asked Jo, unconscious of her little slip ofthe tongue, and emboldened by her success.

"Well, we'll look at it. Can't promise to take it. Tell herto make it short and spicy, and never mind the moral. What namewould your friend like to put on it?" in a careless tone.

"None at all, if you please, she doesn't wish her name toappear and has no nom de plume," said Jo, blushing in spite ofherself.

"Just as she likes, of course. The tale will be out next week.Will you call for the money, or shall I send it?" asked Mr. Dashwood,who felt a natural desire to know who his new contributor might be.

"I'll call. Good morning, Sir."

As she departed, Mr. Dashwood put up his feet, with the gracefulremark, "Poor and proud, as usual, but she'll do."

Following Mr. Dashwood's directions, and making Mrs. Northbury hermodel, Jo rashly took a plunge into the frothy sea of sensationalliterature, but thanks to the life preserver thrown her by a friend,she came up again not much the worse for her ducking.

Like most young scribblers, she went abroad for her charactersand scenery, and banditti, counts, gypsies, nuns, and duchessesappeared upon her stage, and played their parts with asmuch accuracy and spirit as could be expected. Her readerswere not particular about such trifles as grammar, punctuation,and probability, and Mr. Dashwood graciously permitted her tofill his columns at the lowest prices, not thinking it necessaryto tell her that the real cause of his hospitality was thefact that one of his hacks, on being offered higher wages, hadbasely left him in the lurch.

She soon became interested in her work, for her emaciatedpurse grew stout, and the little hoard she was making to takeBeth to the mountains next summer grew slowly but surely asthe weeks passed. One thing disturbed her satisfaction, andthat was that she did not tell them at home. She had a feelingthat Father and Mother would not approve, and preferred to haveher own way first, and beg pardon afterward. It was easy tokeep her secret, for no name appeared with her stories. Mr.Dashwood had of course found it out very soon, but promisedto be dumb, and for a wonder kept his word.

She thought it would do her no harm, for she sincerelymeant to write nothing of which she would be ashamed, andquieted all pricks of conscience by anticipations of thehappy minute when she should show her earnings and laugh overher well-kept secret.

But Mr. Dashwood rejected any but thrilling tales, and asthrills could not be produced except by harrowing up the soulsof the readers, history and romance, land and sea, science andart, police records and lunatic asylums, had to be ransackedfor the purpose. Jo soon found that her innocent experiencehad given her but few glimpses of the tragic world whichunderlies society, so regarding it in a business light, she setabout supplying her deficiencies with characteristic energy.Eager to find material for stories, and bent on making themoriginal in plot, if not masterly in execution, she searchednewspapers for accidents, incidents, and crimes. She excitedthe suspicions of public librarians by asking for works onpoisons. She studied faces in the street, and characters,good, bad, and indifferent, all about her. She delved inthe dust of ancient times for facts or fictions so old thatthey were as good as new, and introduced herself to folly, sin,and misery, as well as her limited opportunities allowed. Shethought she was prospering finely, but unconsciously she wasbeginning to desecrate some of the womanliest attributes of awoman's character. She was living in bad society, and imaginarythough it was, its influence affected her, for she wasfeeding heart and fancy on dangerous and unsubstantial food,and was fast brushing the innocent bloom from her nature bya premature acquaintance with the darker side of life, whichcomes soon enough to all of us.

She was beginning to feel rather than see this, for muchdescribing of other people's passions and feelings set herto studying and speculating about her own, a morbid amusementin which healthy young minds do not voluntarily indulge.Wrongdoing always brings its own punishment, and when Jomost needed hers, she got it.

I don't know whether the study of Shakespeare helped her to readcharacter, or the natural instinct of a woman for what was honest,brave, and strong, but while endowing her imaginary heroes withevery perfection under the sun, Jo was discovering a live hero, whointerested her in spite of many human imperfections. Mr. Bhaer, inone of their conversations, had advised her to study simple, true,and lovely characters, wherever she found them, as good training fora writer. Jo took him at his word, for she coolly turned round andstudied him - a proceeding which would have much surprised him, hadhe known it, for the worthy Professor was very humble in his ownconceit.

Why everybody liked him was what puzzled Jo, at first. Hewas neither rich nor great, young nor handsome, in no respectwhat is called fascinating, imposing, or brilliant, and yethe was as attractive as a genial fire, and people seemed togather about him as naturally as about a warm hearth. He waspoor, yet always appeared to be giving something away; astranger, yet everyone was his friend; no longer young, butas happy-hearted as a boy; plain and peculiar, yet his facelooked beautiful to many, and his oddities were freely forgivenfor his sake. Jo often watched him, trying to discoverthe charm, and at last decided that it was benevolence whichworked the miracle. If he had any sorrow, 'it sat with itshead under its wing', and he turned only his sunny side to theworld. There were lines upon his forehead, but Time seemedto have touched him gently, remembering how kind he was toothers. The pleasant curves about his mouth were the memorialsof many friendly words and cheery laughs, his eyes were nevercold or hard, and his big hand had a warm, strong graspthat was more expressive than words.

His very clothes seemed to partake of the hospitable nature of thewearer. They looked as if they were at ease, and liked to make himcomfortable. His capacious waistcoat was suggestive of a large heartunderneath. His rusty coat had a social air, and the baggy pocketsplainly proved that little hands often went in empty and came outfull. His very boots were benevolent, and his collars never stiffand raspy like other people's.

"That's it!" said Jo to herself, when she at length discoveredthat genuine good will toward one's fellow men could beautifyand dignify even a stout German teacher, who shoveled in his dinner,darned his own socks, and was burdened with the name of Bhaer.

Jo valued goodness highly, but she also possessed a mostfeminine respect for intellect, and a little discovery whichshe made about the Professor added much to her regard for him.He never spoke of himself, and no one ever knew that in hisnative city he had been a man much honored and esteemed forlearning and integrity, till a countryman came to see him.He never spoke of himself, and in a conversation with MissNorton divulged the pleasing fact. From her Jo learned it,and liked it all the better because Mr. Bhaer had never toldit. She felt proud to know that he was an honored Professorin Berlin, though only a poor language-master in America,and his homely, hard-working life was much beautified by thespice of romance which this discovery gave it.Another and a better gift than intellect was shown her ina most unexpected manner. Miss Norton had the entree intomost society, which Jo would have had no chance of seeing butfor her. The solitary woman felt an interest in the ambitiousgirl, and kindly conferred many favors of this sort both on Joand the Professor. She took them with her one night to a selectsymposium, held in honor of several celebrities.

Jo went prepared to bow down and adore the mighty oneswhom she had worshiped with youthful enthusiasm afar off. Buther reverence for genius received a severe shock that night,and it took her some time to recover from the discovery thatthe great creatures were only men and women after all. Imagineher dismay, on stealing a glance of timid admiration at thepoet whose lines suggested an ethereal being fed on 'spirit,fire, and dew', to behold him devouring his supper with anardor which flushed his intellectual countenance. Turningas from a fallen idol, she made other discoveries whichrapidly dispelled her romantic illusions. The great novelistvibrated between two decanters with the regularity of a pendulum;the famous divine flirted openly with one of theMadame de Staels of the age, who looked daggers at anotherCorinne, who was amiably satirizing her, after outmaneuveringher in efforts to absorb the profound philosopher, who imbibedtea Johnsonianly and appeared to slumber, the loquacity of thelady rendering speech impossible. The scientific celebrities,forgetting their mollusks and glacial periods, gossiped aboutart, while devoting themselves to oysters and ices withcharacteristic energy; the young musician, who was charmingthe city like a second Orpheus, talked horses; and the specimenof the British nobility present happened to be the most ordinaryman of the party.

Before the evening was half over, Jo felt so completelydisillusioned, that she sat down in a corner to recover herself.Mr. Bhaer soon joined her, looking rather out of his element,and presently several of the philosophers, each mounted on hishobby, came ambling up to hold an intellectual tournament inthe recess. The conversations were miles beyond Jo's comprehension,but she enjoyed it, though Kant and Hegel were unknowngods, the Subjective and Objective unintelligible terms, andthe only thing 'evolved from her inner consciousness' was abad headache after it was all over. It dawned upon her graduallythat the world was being picked to pieces, and put together onnew and, according to the talkers, on infinitely better principlesthan before, that religion was in a fair way to bereasoned into nothingness, and intellect was to be the onlyGod. Jo knew nothing about philosophy or metaphysics of anysort, but a curious excitement, half pleasurable, half painful,came over her as she listened with a sense of being turnedadrift into time and space, like a young balloon out on a holiday.

She looked round to see how the Professor liked it, andfound him looking at her with the grimmest expression she hadever seen him wear. He shook his head and beckoned her tocome away, but she was fascinated just then by the freedomof Speculative Philosophy, and kept her seat, trying to findout what the wise gentlemen intended to rely upon afterthey had annihilated all the old beliefs.

Now, Mr. Bhaer was a diffident man and slow to offer hisown opinions, not because they were unsettled, but too sincereand earnest to be lightly spoken. As he glanced from Joto several other young people, attracted by the brilliancyof the philosophic pyrotechnics, he knit his brows and longedto speak, fearing that some inflammable young soul would beled astray by the rockets, to find when the display was overthat they had only an empty stick or a scorched hand.

He bore it as long as he could, but when he was appealedto for an opinion, he blazed up with honest indignation anddefended religion with all the eloquence of truth - an eloquencewhich made his broken English musical and his plainface beautiful. He had a hard fight, for the wise men arguedwell, but he didn't know when he was beaten and stood to hiscolors like a man. Somehow, as he talked, the world gotright again to Jo. The old beliefs, that had lasted so long,seemed better than the new. God was not a blind force, andimmortality was not a pretty fable, but a blessed fact. Shefelt as if she had solid ground under her feet again, andwhen Mr. Bhaer paused, outtalked but not one whit convinced,Jo wanted to clap her hands and thank him.

She did neither, but she remembered the scene, and gavethe Professor her heartiest respect, for she knew it cost himan effort to speak out then and there, because his consciencewould not let him be silent. She began to see that characteris a better possession than money, rank, intellect, or beauty,and to feel that if greatness is what a wise man has definedit to be, 'truth, reverence, and good will', then her friendFriedrich Bhaer was not only good, but great.

This belief strengthened daily. She valued his esteem,she coveted his respect, she wanted to be worthy of his friendship,and just when the wish was sincerest, she came near tolosing everything. It all grew out of a cocked hat, for oneevening the Professor came in to give Jo her lesson with apaper soldier cap on his head, which Tina had put there andhe had forgotten to take off.

"It's evident he doesn't look in his glass before comingdown," thought Jo, with a smile, as he said "Goot efening,"and sat soberly down, quite unconscious of the ludicrouscontrast between his subject and his headgear, for he wasgoing to read her the Death of Wallenstein.

She said nothing at first, for she liked to hear him laughout his big, hearty laugh when anything funny happened, so sheleft him to discover it for himself, and presently forgot allabout it, for to hear a German read Schiller is rather an absorbingoccupation. After the reading came the lesson, whichwas a lively one, for Jo was in a gay mood that night, andthe cocked hat kept her eyes dancing with merriment. TheProfessor didn't know what to make of her, and stopped atlast to ask with an air of mild surprise that was irresistible. . .

"Mees Marsch, for what do you laugh in your master's face?Haf you no respect for me, that you go on so bad?"

"How can I be respectful, Sir, when you forget to takeyour hat off?" said Jo.

Lifting his hand to his head, the absent-minded Professorgravely felt and removed the little cocked hat, looked at it aminute, and then threw back his head and laughed like a merrybass viol.

"Ah! I see him now, it is that imp Tina who makes me afool with my cap. Well, it is nothing, but see you, if thislesson goes not well, you too shall wear him."

But the lesson did not go at all for a few minutes becauseMr. Bhaer caught sight of a picture on the hat, and unfolding it,said with great disgust, "I wish these papers did not come in the house. They are not for children to see, nor young people to read.It is not well, and I haf no patience with those who make this harm."

Jo glanced at the sheet and saw a pleasing illustrationcomposed of a lunatic, a corpse, a villain, and a viper. Shedid not like it, but the impulse that made her turn it overwas not one of displeasure but fear, because for a minuteshe fancied the paper was the Volcano. It was not, however,and her panic subsided as she remembered that even if ithad been and one of her own tales in it, there would havebeen no name to betray her. She had betrayed herself, however,by a look and a blush, for though an absent man, theProfessor saw a good deal more than people fancied. Heknew that Jo wrote, and had met her down among the newspaperoffices more than once, but as she never spoke of it,he asked no questions in spite of a strong desire to see herwork. Now it occurred to him that she was doing what shewas ashamed to own, and it troubled him. He did not say tohimself, "It is none of my business. I've no right to sayanything," as many people would have done. He only rememberedthat she was young and poor, a girl far away frommother's love and father's care, and he was moved to helpher with an impulse as quick and natural as that whichwould prompt him to put out his hand to save a baby froma puddle. All this flashed through his mind in a minute,but not a trace of it appeared in his face, and by thetime the paper was turned, and Jo's needle threaded, hewas ready to say quite naturally, but very gravely . . .

"Yes, you are right to put it from you. I do not thinkthat good young girls should see such things. They are madepleasant to some, but I would more rather give my boys gunpowderto play with than this bad trash."

"All may not be bad, only silly, you know, and if thereis a demand for it, I don't see any harm in supplying it.Many very respectable people make an honest living out ofwhat are called sensation stories," said Jo, scratching gathersso energetically that a row of little slits followed her pin.

"There is a demand for whisky, but I think you and I donot care to sell it. If the respectable people knew what harmthey did, they would not feel that the living was honest. Theyhaf no right to put poison in the sugarplum, and let the smallones eat it. No, they should think a little, and sweep mud inthe street before they do this thing."

Mr. Bhaer spoke warmly, and walked to the fire, crumplingthe paper in his hands. Jo sat still, looking as if the firehad come to her, for her cheeks burned long after the cockedhat had turned to smoke and gone harmlessly up the chimney.

"I should like much to send all the rest after him," mutteredthe Professor, coming back with a relieved air.

Jo thought what a blaze her pile of papers upstairs would make, andher hard-earned money lay rather heavily on her conscience at thatminute. Then she thought consolingly to herself, "Mine are not likethat, they are only silly, never bad, so I won't be worried," andtaking up her book, she said, with a studious face, "Shall we go on,Sir? I'll be very good and proper now."

"I shall hope so," was all he said, but he meant more thanshe imagined, and the grave, kind look he gave her made herfeel as if the words Weekly Volcano were printed in largetype on her forehead.

As soon as she went to her room, she got out her papers,and carefully reread every one of her stories. Being a littleshortsighted, Mr. Bhaer sometimes used eye glasses, and Johad tried them once, smiling to see how they magnified thefine print of her book. Now she seemed to have on the Professor'smental or moral spectacles also, for the faults of thesepoor stories glared at her dreadfully and filled her with dismay.

"They are trash, and will soon be worse trash if I goon, for each is more sensational than the last. I've goneblindly on, hurting myself and other people, for the sake ofmoney. I know it's so, for I can't read this stuff in soberearnest without being horribly ashamed of it, and what shouldI do if they were seen at home or Mr. Bhaer got hold of them?"

Jo turned hot at the bare idea, and stuffed the whole bundleinto her stove, nearly setting the chimney afire with the blaze.

"Yes, that's the best place for such inflammable nonsense.I'd better burn the house down, I suppose, than let otherpeople blow themselves up with my gunpowder," she thought asshe watched the Demon of the Jura whisk away, a little blackcinder with fiery eyes.

But when nothing remained of all her three month's workexcept a heap of ashes and the money in her lap, Jo lookedsober, as she sat on the floor, wondering what she ought todo about her wages.

"I think I haven't done much harm yet, and may keep thisto pay for my time," she said, after a long meditation, addingimpatiently, "I almost wish I hadn't any conscience, it's soinconvenient. If I didn't care about doing right, and didn'tfeel uncomfortable when doing wrong, I should get on capitally.I can't help wishing sometimes, that Mother and Father hadn'tbeen so particular about such things."

Ah, Jo, instead of wishing that, thank God that 'Fatherand Mother were particular', and pity from your heart thosewho have no such guardians to hedge them round with principleswhich may seem like prison walls to impatient youth,but which will prove sure foundations to build character uponin womanhood.

Jo wrote no more sensational stories, deciding that themoney did not pay for her share of the sensation, but goingto the other extreme, as is the way with people of her stamp,she took a course of Mrs. Sherwood, Miss Edgeworth, and HannahMore, and then produced a tale which might have been moreproperly called an essay or a sermon, so intensely moralwas it. She had her doubts about it from the beginning, forher lively fancy and girlish romance felt as ill at ease in thenew style as she would have done masquerading in the stiffand cumbrous costume of the last century. She sent this didacticgem to several markets, but it found no purchaser,and she was inclined to agree with Mr. Dashwood that moralsdidn't sell.

Then she tried a child's story, which she could easily havedisposed of if she had not been mercenary enough to demand filthylucre for it. The only person who offered enough to make itworth her while to try juvenile literature was a worthy gentlemanwho felt it his mission to convert all the world to hisparticular belief. But much as she liked to write for children,Jo could not consent to depict all her naughty boys asbeing eaten by bears or tossed by mad bulls because they didnot go to a particular Sabbath school, nor all the good infantswho did go as rewarded by every kind of bliss, from gildedgingerbread to escorts of angels when they departed this lifewith psalms or sermons on their lisping tongues. So nothingcame of these trials, and Jo corked up her inkstand, andsaid in a fit of very wholesome humility . . .

"I don't know anything. I'll wait until I do before I tryagain, and meantime, 'sweep mud in the street' if I can't dobetter, that's honest, at least." Which decision proved thather second tumble down the beanstalk had done her some good.

While these internal revolutions were going on, her externallife had been as busy and uneventful as usual, and if shesometimes looked serious or a little sad no one observedit but Professor Bhaer. He did it so quietly that Jo neverknew he was watching to see if she would accept and profit byhis reproof, but she stood the test, and he was satisfied, forthough no words passed between them, he knew that she hadgiven up writing. Not only did he guess it by the fact thatthe second finger of her right hand was no longer inky, butshe spent her evenings downstairs now, was met no more amongnewspaper offices, and studied with a dogged patience, whichassured him that she was bent on occupying her mind withsomething useful, if not pleasant.

He helped her in many ways, proving himself a true friend,and Jo was happy, for while her pen lay idle, she was learningother lessons besides German, and laying a foundation for thesensation story of her own life.

It was a pleasant winter and a long one, for she did notleave Mrs. Kirke till June. Everyone seemed sorry when the timecame. The children were inconsolable, and Mr. Bhaer's hairstuck straight up all over his head, for he always rumpled itwildly when disturbed in mind.

"Going home? Ah, you are happy that you haf a home to goin," he said, when she told him, and sat silently pulling hisbeard in the corner, while she held a little levee on that lastevening.

She was going early, so she bade them all goodbye overnight,and when his turn came, she said warmly, "Now, Sir, you won'tforget to come and see us, if you ever travel our way, will you?I'll never forgive you if you do, for I want them all to know myfriend."

"Do you? Shall I come?" he asked, looking down at her withan eager expression which she did not see.

"Yes, come next month. Laurie graduates then, and you'denjoy commencement as something new."

"That is your best friend, of whom you speak?" he said inan altered tone.

"Yes, my boy Teddy. I'm very proud of him and should likeyou to see him."

Jo looked up then, quite unconscious of anything but herown pleasure in the prospect of showing them to one another.Something in Mr. Bhaer's face suddenly recalled the fact thatshe might find Laurie more than a 'best friend', and simplybecause she particularly wished not to look as if anything wasthe matter, she involuntarily began to blush, and the more shetried not to, the redder she grew. If it had not been for Tinaon her knee. She didn't know what would have become of her.Fortunately the child was moved to hug her, so she managed tohide her face an instant, hoping the Professor did not see it.But he did, and his own changed again from that momentary anxietyto its usual expression, as he said cordially . . .

"I fear I shall not make the time for that, but I wish the friendmuch success, and you all happiness. Gott bless you!" And with that,he shook hands warmly, shouldered Tina, and went away.

But after the boys were abed, he sat long before his firewith the tired look on his face and the 'heimweh', or homesickness,lying heavy at his heart. Once, when he rememberedJo as she sat with the little child in her lap and that newsoftness in her face, he leaned his head on his hands a minute,and then roamed about the room, as if in search of somethingthat he could not find.

"It is not for me, I must not hope it now," he said to himself,with a sigh that was almost a groan. Then, as if reproachinghimself for the longing that he could not repress, he wentand kissed the two tousled heads upon the pillow, took down hisseldom-used meerschaum, and opened his Plato.

He did his best and did it manfully, but I don't think he foundthat a pair of rampant boys, a pipe, or even the divine Plato,were very satisfactory substitutes for wife and child at home.

Early as it was, he was at the station next morning to seeJo off, and thanks to him, she began her solitary journey withthe pleasant memory of a familiar face smiling its farewell, abunch of violets to keep her company, and best of all, the happythought, "Well, the winter's gone, and I've written no books,earned no fortune, but I've made a friend worth having and I'lltry to keep him all my life."