Whatever his motive might have been, Laurie studied tosome purpose that year, for he graduated with honor, andgave the Latin oration with the grace of a Phillips and theeloquence of a Demosthenes, so his friends said. They wereall there, his grandfather - oh, so proud - Mr. and Mrs. March,John and Meg, Jo and Beth, and all exulted over him with thesincere admiration which boys make light of at the time, butfail to win from the world by any after-triumphs.

"I've got to stay for this confounded supper, but I shallbe home early tomorrow. You'll come and meet me as usual,girls?" Laurie said, as he put the sisters into the carriageafter the joys of the day were over. He said 'girls', but hemeant Jo, for she was the only one who kept up the old custom.She had not the heart to refuse her splendid, successful boyanything, and answered warmly . . .

"I'll come, Teddy, rain or shine, and march before you,playing 'Hail the conquering hero comes' on a jew's-harp."

Laurie thanked her with a look that made her think in asudden panic, "Oh, deary me! I know he'll say something, andthen what shall I do?"

Evening meditation and morning work somewhat allayed herfears, and having decided that she wouldn't be vain enoughto think people were going to propose when she had given themevery reason to know what her answer would be, she set forthat the appointed time, hoping Teddy wouldn't do anything tomake her hurt his poor feelings. A call at Meg's, and arefreshing sniff and sip at the Daisy and Demijohn, stillfurther fortified her for the tete-a-tete, but when she sawa stalwart figure looming in the distance, she had a strongdesire to turn about and run away.

"Where's the jew's-harp, Jo?" cried Laurie, as soon ashe was within speaking distance.

"I forgot it." And Jo took heart again, for that salutationcould not be called lover-like.

She always used to take his arm on these occasions, nowshe did not, and he made no complaint, which was a bad sign,but talked on rapidly about all sorts of faraway subjects,till they turned from the road into the little path that ledhomeward through the grove. Then he walked more slowly, suddenlylost his fine flow of language, and now and then a dreadfulpause occurred. To rescue the conversation from one ofthe wells of silence into which it kept falling, Jo saidhastily, "Now you must have a good long holiday!"

"I intend to."

Something in his resolute tone made Jo look up quickly tofind him looking down at her with an expression that assuredher the dreaded moment had come, and made her put out her handwith an imploring, "No, Teddy. Please don't!"

"I will, and you must hear me. It's no use, Jo, we've gotto have it out, and the sooner the better for both of us," heanswered, getting flushed and excited all at once.

"Say what you like then. I'll listen," said Jo, with adesperate sort of patience.

Laurie was a young lover, but he was in earnest, and meantto 'have it out', if he died in the attempt, so he plunged intothe subject with characteristic impetuousity, saying in a voicethat would get choky now and then, in spite of manful efforts tokeep it steady . . .

"I've loved you ever since I've known you, Jo, couldn't helpit, you've been so good to me. I've tried to show it, but youwouldn't let me. Now I'm going to make you hear, and give me ananswer, for I can't go on so any longer."

"I wanted to save you this. I thought you'd understand . . ."began Jo, finding it a great deal harder than she expected.

"I know you did, but the girls are so queer you never knowwhat they mean. They say no when they mean yes, and drive aman out of his wits just for the fun of it," returned Laurie,entrenching himself behind an undeniable fact.

"I don't. I never wanted to make you care for me so, andI went away to keep you from it if I could."

"I thought so. It was like you, but it was no use. Ionly loved you all the more, and I worked hard to please you,and I gave up billiards and everything you didn't like, andwaited and never complained, for I hoped you'd love me, thoughI'm not half good enough . . ." Here there was a choke thatcouldn't be controlled, so he decapitated buttercups while hecleared his 'confounded throat'.

"You, you are, you're a great deal too good for me, andI'm so grateful to you, and so proud and fond of you, I don'tknow why I can't love you as you want me to. I've tried, butI can't change the feeling, and it would be a lie to say I dowhen I don't."

"Really, truly, Jo?"

He stopped short, and caught both her hands as he puthis question with a look that she did not soon forget.

"Really, truly, dear."

They were in the grove now, close by the stile, and whenthe last words fell reluctantly from Jo's lips, Laurie droppedher hands and turned as if to go on, but for once in his lifethe fence was too much for him. So he just laid his head downon the mossy post, and stood so still that Jo was frightened.

"Oh, Teddy, I'm sorry, so desperately sorry, I could killmyself if it would do any good! I wish you wouldn't take itso hard, I can't help it. You know it's impossible for peopleto make themselves love other people if they don't," cried Joinelegantly but remorsefully, as she softly patted his shoulder,remembering the time when he had comforted her so long ago.

"They do sometimes," said a muffled voice from the post."I don't believe it's the right sort of love, and I'drather not try it," was the decided answer.

There was a long pause, while a blackbird sung blithely onthe willow by the river, and the tall grass rustled in the wind.Presently Jo said very soberly, as she sat down on the step ofthe stile, "Laurie, I want to tell you something."

He started as if he had been shot, threw up his head, andcried out in a fierce tone, "Don't tell me that, Jo, I can't bearit now!"

"Tell what?" she asked, wondering at his violence.

"That you love that old man."

"What old man?" demanded Jo, thinking he must mean hisgrandfather.

"That devilish Professor you were always writing about.If you say you love him, I know I shall do something desperate;"and he looked as if he would keep his word, as he clenchedhis hands with a wrathful spark in his eyes.

Jo wanted to laugh, but restrained herself and said warmly,for she too, was getting excited with all this, "Don't swear,Teddy! He isn't old, nor anything bad, but good and kind, andthe best friend I've got, next to you. Pray, don't fly intoa passion. I want to be kind, but I know I shall get angry ifyou abuse my Professor. I haven't the least idea of lovinghim or anybody else."

"But you will after a while, and then what will become of me?"

"You'll love someone else too, like a sensible boy, andforget all this trouble."

"I can't love anyone else, and I'll never forget you, Jo,Never! Never!" with a stamp to emphasize his passionate words.

"What shall I do with him?" sighed Jo, finding that emotionswere more unmanagable than she expected. "You haven't heardwhat I wanted to tell you. Sit down and listen, for indeed Iwant to do right and make you happy," she said, hoping to soothehim with a little reason, which proved that she knew nothingabout love.

Seeing a ray of hope in that last speech, Laurie threw himselfdown on the grass at her feet, leaned his arm on the lowerstep of the stile, and looked up at her with an expectant face.Now that arrangement was not conducive to calm speech or clearthought on Jo's part, for how could she say hard things to herboy while he watched her with eyes full of love and longing,and lashes still wet with the bitter drop or two her hardnessof heart had wrung from him? She gently turned his head away,saying, as she stroked the wavy hair which had been allowed togrow for her sake - how touching that was, to be sure!"I agree with Mother that you and I are not suited to eachother, because our quick tempers and strong wills would probablymake us very miserable, if we were so foolish as to . . ."Jo paused a little over the last word, but Laurie uttered itwith a rapturous expression.

"Marry - no we shouldn't! If you loved me, Jo, I shouldbe a perfect saint, for you could make me anything you like."

"No, I can't. I've tried and failed, and I won't riskour happiness by such a serious experiment. We don't agree andwe never shall, so we'll be good friends all our lives, but wewon't go and do anything rash."

"Yes, we will if we get the chance," muttered Laurie rebelliously.

"Now do be reasonable, and take a sensible view of the case,"implored Jo, almost at her wit's end.

"I won't be reasonable. I don't want to take what youcall 'a sensible view'. It won't help me, and it only makesit harder. I don't believe you've got any heart."

"I wish I hadn't."

There was a little quiver in Jo's voice, and thinking it agood omen, Laurie turned round, bringing all his persuasivepowers to bear as he said, in the wheedlesome tone that hadnever been so dangerously wheedlesome before, "Don't disappointus, dear! Everyone expects it. Grandpa has set his heart uponit, your people like it, and I can't get on without you. Sayyou will, and let's be happy. Do, do!"

Not until months afterward did Jo understand how she hadthe strength of mind to hold fast to the resolution she hadmade when she decided that she did not love her boy, andnever could. It was very hard to do, but she did it, knowingthat delay was both useless and cruel.

"I can't say 'yes' truly, so I won't say it at all. You'llsee that I'm right, by-and-by, and thank me for it . . ." shebegan solemnly.

"I'll be hanged if I do!" and Laurie bounced up off thegrass, burning with indignation at the very idea.

"Yes, you will!" persisted Jo. "You'll get over this aftera while, and find some lovely accomplished girl, who will adoreyou, and make a fine mistress for your fine house. I shouldn't.I'm homely and awkward and odd and old, and you'd be ashamedof me, and we should quarrel - we can't help it even now, yousee - and I shouldn't like elegant society and you would, and you'd hate my scribbling, and I couldn't get on without it, and we should be unhappy, and wish we hadn't done it, and everything would be horrid!"

"Anything more?" asked Laurie, finding it hard tolisten patiently to this prophetic burst.

"Nothing more, except that I don't believe I shall evermarry. I'm happy as I am, and love my liberty too well tobe in a hurry to give it up for any mortal man."

"I know better!" broke in Laurie. "You think so now,but there'll come a time when you will care for somebody, andyou'll love him tremendously, and live and die for him. Iknow you will, it's your way, and I shall have to stand byand see it," and the despairing lover cast his hat upon theground with a gesture that would have seemed comical, if hisface had not been so tragic.

"Yes, I will live and die for him, if he ever comes andmakes me love him in spite of myself, and you must do the bestyou can!" cried Jo, losing patience with poor Teddy. "I'vedone my best, but you won't be reasonable, and it's selfishof you to keep teasing for what I can't give. I shall alwaysbe fond of you, very fond indeed, as a friend, but I'll nevermarry you, and the sooner you believe it the better for bothof us - so now!"

That speech was like gunpowder. Laurie looked at her aminute as if he did not quite know what to do with himself,then turned sharply away, saying in a desperate sort of tone,"You'll be sorry some day, Jo."

"Oh, where are you going?" she cried, for his face frightened her.

"To the devil!" was the consoling answer.

For a minute Jo's heart stood still, as he swung himselfdown the bank toward the river, but it takes much folly, sinor misery to send a young man to a violent death, and Lauriewas not one of the weak sort who are conquered by a singlefailure. He had no thought of a melodramatic plunge, butsome blind instinct led him to fling hat and coat into his boat,and row away with all his might, making better time up theriver than he had done in any race. Jo drew a long breath andunclasped her hands as she watched the poor fellow trying tooutstrip the trouble which he carried in his heart.

"That will do him good, and he'll come home in such atender, penitent state of mind, that I shan't dare to see him,"she said, adding, as she went slowly home, feeling as if shehad murdered some innocent thing, and buried it under theleaves. "Now I must go and prepare Mr. Laurence to be verykind to my poor boy. I wish he'd love Beth, perhaps he mayin time, but I begin to think I was mistaken about her. Ohdear! How can girls like to have lovers and refuse them? Ithink it's dreadful."

Being sure that no one could do it so well as herself, shewent straight to Mr. Laurence, told the hard story bravelythrough, and then broke down, crying so dismally over her owninsensibility that the kind old gentleman, though sorely disappointed,did not utter a reproach. He found it difficult to understandhow any girl could help loving Laurie, and hoped she wouldchange her mind, but he knew even better than Jo that lovecannot be forced, so he shook his head sadly and resolvedto carry his boy out of harm's way, for Young Impetuosity'sparting words to Jo disturbed him more than he would confess.

"That's very fine, I dare say, but it's sad enough to makeone cry. Give us something gayer, lad," said Mr. Laurence,whose kind old heart was full of sympathy, which he longed toshow but knew not how.

Laurie dashed into a livelier strain, played stormily forseveral minutes, and would have got through bravely, if in amomentary lull Mrs. March's voice had not been heard calling,"Jo, dear, come in. I want you."

Just what Laurie longed to say, with a different meaning!As he listened, he lost his place, the music ended with a brokenchord, and the musician sat silent in the dark.

"I can't stand this," muttered the old gentleman. Up hegot, groped his way to the piano, laid a kind hand on eitherof the broad shoulders, and said, as gently as a woman, "Iknow, my boy, I know."

No answer for an instant, then Laurie asked sharply, "Whotold you?"

"Jo herself."

"Then there's an end of it!" And he shook off his grandfather'shands with an impatient motion, for though gratefulfor the sympathy, his man's pride could not bear a man's pity.

"Not quite. I want to say one thing, and then there shallbe an end of it," returned Mr. Laurence with unusual mildness."You won't care to stay at home now, perhaps?"

"I don't intend to run away from a girl. Jo can't preventmy seeing her, and I shall stay and do it as long as I like,"interrupted Laurie in a defiant tone.

"Not if you are the gentleman I think you. I'm disappointed,but the girl can't help it, and the only thing leftfor you to do is to go away for a time. Where will you go?"

"Anywhere. I don't care what becomes of me," and Lauriegot up with a reckless laugh that grated on his grandfather'sear.

"Take it like a man, and don't do anything rash, for God'ssake. Why not go abroad, as you planned, and forget it?"

"I can't."

"But you've been wild to go, and I promised you shouldwhen you got through college."

"Ah, but I didn't mean to go alone!" and Laurie walkedfast through the room with an expression which it was wellhis grandfather did not see.

"I don't ask you to go alone. There's someone ready andglad to go with you, anywhere in the world."

"Who, Sir?" stopping to listen.

"Myself."

Laurie came back as quickly as he went, and put out his hand, sayinghuskily, "I'm a selfish brute, but - you know - Grandfather - "

"Lord help me, yes, I do know, for I've been through it allbefore, once in my own young days, and then with your father.Now, my dear boy, just sit quietly down and hear my plan. It'sall settled, and can be carried out at once," said Mr. Laurence,keeping hold of the young man, as if fearful that he would breakaway as his father had done before him.

"Well, sir, what is it?" and Laurie sat down, without asign of interest in face or voice.

"There is business in London that needs looking after. Imeant you should attend to it, but I can do it better myself,and things here will get on very well with Brooke to managethem. My partners do almost everything, I'm merely holdingon until you take my place, and can be off at any time."

"But you hate traveling, Sir. I can't ask it of you atyour age," began Laurie, who was grateful for the sacrifice,but much preferred to go alone, if he went at all.

The old gentleman knew that perfectly well, and particularlydesired to prevent it, for the mood in which he found hisgrandson assured him that it would not be wise to leave him tohis own devices. So, stifling a natural regret at the thoughtof the home comforts he would leave behind him, he said stoutly,"Bless your soul, I'm not superannuated yet. I quite enjoy theidea. It will do me good, and my old bones won't suffer, fortraveling nowadays is almost as easy as sitting in a chair."

A restless movement from Laurie suggested that his chairwas not easy, or that he did not like the plan, and made theold man add hastily, "I don't mean to be a marplot or a burden.I go because I think you'd feel happier than if I wasleft behind. I don't intend to gad about with you, but leaveyou free to go where you like, while I amuse myself in my ownway. I've friends in London and Paris, and should like tovisit them. Meantime you can go to Italy, Germany, Switzerland,where you will, and enjoy pictures, music, scenery,and adventures to your heart's content."

Now, Laurie felt just then that his heart was entirelybroken and the world a howling wilderness, but at the soundof certain words which the old gentleman artfully introducedinto his closing sentence, the broken heart gave an unexpectedleap, and a green oasis or two suddenly appeared in the howlingwilderness. He sighed, and then said, in a spiritless tone,"Just as you like, Sir. It doesn't matter where I go or what I do."

"It does to me, remember that, my lad. I give you entireliberty, but I trust you to make an honest use of it. Promiseme that, Laurie."

"Anything you like, Sir."

"Good," thought the old gentleman. "You don't care now,but there'll come a time when that promise will keep you outof mischief, or I'm much mistaken."

Being an energetic individual, Mr. Laurence struck whilethe iron was hot, and before the blighted being recovered spiritenough to rebel, they were off. During the time necessary forpreparation, Laurie bore himself as young gentleman usually doin such cases. He was moody, irritable, and pensive by turns,lost his appetite, neglected his dress and devoted much timeto playing tempestuously on his piano, avoided Jo, but consoledhimself by staring at her from his window, with a tragicface that haunted her dreams by night and oppressed her with aheavy sense of guilt by day. Unlike some sufferers, he neverspoke of his unrequited passion, and would allow no one, noteven Mrs. March, to attempt consolation or offer sympathy. Onsome accounts, this was a relief to his friends, but the weeksbefore his departure were very uncomfortable, and everyone rejoicedthat the 'poor, dear fellow was going away to forget histrouble, and come home happy'. Of course, he smiled darkly attheir delusion, but passed it by with the sad superiority ofone who knew that his fidelity like his love was unalterable.

When the parting came he affected high spirits, to concealcertain inconvenient emotions which seemed inclined to assertthemselves. This gaiety did not impose upon anybody, but theytried to look as if it did for his sake, and he got on very welltill Mrs. March kissed him, with a whisper full of motherlysolicitude. Then feeling that he was going very fast, he hastilyembraced them all round, not forgetting the afflicted Hannah, andran downstairs as if for his life. Jo followed a minute after towave her hand to him if he looked round. He did look round, cameback, put his arms about her as she stood on the step above him,and looked up at her with a face that made his short appeal eloquentand pathetic.

"Oh, Jo, can't you?"

"Teddy, dear, I wish I could!"

That was all, except a little pause. Then Laurie straightenedhimself up, said, "It's all right, never mind," and went away withoutanother word. Ah, but it wasn't all right, and Jo did mind, forwhile the curly head lay on her arm a minute after her hard answer,she felt as if she had stabbed her dearest friend, and when he lefther without a look behind him, she knew that the boy Laurie neverwould come again.