When Jo came home that spring, she had been struck withthe change in Beth. No one spoke of it or seemed aware of it,for it had come too gradually to startle those who saw herdaily, but to eyes sharpened by absence, it was very plain anda heavy weight fell on Jo's heart as she saw her sister's face.It was no paler and but littler thinner than in the autumn, yetthere was a strange, transparent look about it, as if the mortalwas being slowly refined away, and the immortal shining throughthe frail flesh with an indescribably pathetic beauty. Jo sawand felt it, but said nothing at the time, and soon the firstimpression lost much of its power, for Beth seemed happy, noone appeared to doubt that she was better, and presently inother cares Jo for a time forgot her fear.

But when Laurie was gone, and peace prevailed again, thevague anxiety returned and haunted her. She had confessedher sins and been forgiven, but when she showed her savingsand proposed a mountain trip, Beth had thanked her heartily,but begged not to go so far away from home. Another littlevisit to the seashore would suit her better, and as Grandmacould not be prevailed upon to leave the babies, Jo took Bethdown to the quiet place, where she could live much in theopen air, and let the fresh sea breezes blow a little colorinto her pale cheeks.

It was not a fashionable place, but even among the pleasantpeople there, the girls made few friends, preferring to live forone another. Beth was too shy to enjoy society, and Jo toowrapped up in her to care for anyone else. So they were all inall to each other, and came and went, quite unconscious of theinterest they exited in those about them, who watched with sympatheticeyes the strong sister and the feeble one, alwaystogether, as if they felt instinctively that a long separationwas not far away.

They did feel it, yet neither spoke of it, for often betweenourselves and those nearest and dearest to us there exists a reservewhich it is very hard to overcome. Jo felt as if a veilhad fallen between her heart and Beth's, but when she put outher hand to lift it up, there seemed something sacred in thesilence, and she waited for Beth to speak. She wondered, andwas thankful also, that her parents did not seem to see whatshe saw, and during the quiet weeks when the shadows grew soplain to her, she said nothing of it to those at home, believingthat it would tell itself when Beth came back no better.She wondered still more if her sister really guessed the hardtruth, and what thoughts were passing through her mind duringthe long hours when she lay on the warm rocks with her head inJo's lap, while the winds blew healthfully over her and the seamade music at her feet.

One day Beth told her. Jo thought she was asleep, she layso still, and putting down her book, sat looking at her withwistful eyes, trying to see signs of hope in the faint color onBeth's cheeks. But she could not find enough to satisfy her,for the cheeks were very thin, and the hands seemed too feebleto hold even the rosy little shells they had been collecting.It came to her then more bitterly than ever that Beth wasslowly drifting away from her, and her arms instinctivelytightened their hold upon the dearest treasure she possessed.For a minute her eyes were too dim for seeing, and when theycleared, Beth was looking up at her so tenderly that there washardly any need for her to say, "Jo, dear, I'm glad you knowit. I've tried to tell you, but I couldn't."

There was no answer except her sister's cheek against herown, not even tears, for when most deeply moved, Jo did notcry. She was the weaker then, and Beth tried to comfort andsustain her, with her arms about her and the soothing wordsshe whispered in her ear.

"I've known it for a good while, dear, and now I'm usedto it, it isn't hard to think of or to bear. Try to see it soand don't be troubled about me, because it's best, indeed it is."

"Is this what made you so unhappy in the autumn, Beth? Youdid not feel it then, and keep it to yourself so long, did you?"asked Jo, refusing to see or say that it was best, but glad toknow that Laurie had no part in Beth's trouble.

"Yes, I gave up hoping then, but I didn't like to own it.I tried to think it was a sick fancy, and would not let ittrouble anyone. But when I saw you all so well and strong andfull of happy plans, it was hard to feel that I could never belike you, and then I was miserable, Jo."

"Oh, Beth, and you didn't tell me, didn't let me comfort andhelp you? How could you shut me out, bear it all alone?"

Jo's voice was full of tender reproach, and her heart achedto think of the solitary struggle that must have gone on whileBeth learned to say goodbye to health, love, and life, and takeup her cross so cheerfully.

"Perhaps it was wrong, but I tried to do right. I wasn't sure,no one said anything, and I hoped I was mistaken. It would havebeen selfish to frighten you all when Marmee was so anxious aboutMeg, and Amy away, and you so happy with Laurie - at least I thoughtso then."

"And I thought you loved him, Beth, and I went away becauseI couldn't," cried Jo, glad to say all the truth.

Beth looked so amazed at the idea that Jo smiled in spiteof her pain, and added softly, "Then you didn't, dearie? I wasafraid it was so, and imagined your poor little heart full oflovelornity all that while."

"Why, Jo, how could I, when he was so fond of you?" askedBeth, as innocently as a child. "I do love him dearly. He isso good to me, how can I help It? But he could never be anythingto me but my brother. I hope he truly will be, sometime."

"Not through me," said Jo decidedly. "Amy is left for him,and they would suit excellently, but I have no heart for suchthings, now. I don't care what becomes of anybody but you, Beth.You must get well."

"I want to, oh, so much! I try, but every day I lose a little,and feel more sure that I shall never gain it back. It's like thetide, Jo, when it turns, it goes slowly, but it can't be stopped."

"It shall be stopped, your tide must not turn so soon, nineteenis too young, Beth. I can't let you go. I'll work and prayand fight against it. I'll keep you in spite of everything. Theremust be ways, it can't be too late. God won't be so cruel as totake you from me," cried poor Jo rebelliously, for her spirit wasfar less piously submissive than Beth's.

Simple, sincere people seldom speak much of their piety. Itshows itself in acts rather than in words, and has more influencethan homilies or protestations. Beth could not reason upon orexplain the faith that gave her courage and patience to give uplife, and cheerfully wait for death. Like a confiding child, sheasked no questions, but left everything to God and nature, Fatherand Mother of us all, feeling sure that they, and they only,could teach and strengthen heart and spirit for this life andthe life to come. She did not rebuke Jo with saintly speeches,only loved her better for her passionate affection, and clungmore closely to the dear human love, from which our Father nevermeans us to be weaned, but through which He draws us closer toHimself. She could not say, "I'm glad to go," for life was verysweet for her. She could only sob out, "I try to be willing,"while she held fast to Jo, as the first bitter wave of thisgreat sorrow broke over them together.

By and by Beth said, with recovered serenity, "You'll tellthem this when we go home?"

"I think they will see it without words," sighed Jo, for nowit seemed to her that Beth changed every day.

"Perhaps not. I've heard that the people who love best areoften blindest to such things. If they don't see it, you will tellthem for me. I don't want any secrets, and it's kinder to preparethem. Meg has John and the babies to comfort her, but you muststand by Father and Mother, won't you Jo?"

"If I can. But, Beth, I don't give up yet. I'm going to believethat it is a sick fancy, and not let you think it's true."said Jo, trying to speak cheerfully.

Beth lay a minute thinking, and then said in her quiet way,"I don't know how to express myself, and shouldn't try to anyonebut you, because I can't speak out except to my Jo. I only meanto say that I have a feeling that it never was intended I shouldlive long. I'm not like the rest of you. I never made any plansabout what I'd do when I grew up. I never thought of being married,as you all did. I couldn't seem to imagine myself anythingbut stupid little Beth, trotting about at home, of no use anywherebut there. I never wanted to go away, and the hard part now isthe leaving you all. I'm not afraid, but it seems as if I shouldbe homesick for you even in heaven."

Jo could not speak, and for several minutes there was nosound but the sigh of the wind and the lapping of the tide. Awhite-winged gull flew by, with the flash of sunshine on itssilvery breast. Beth watched it till it vanished, and her eyeswere full of sadness. A little gray-coated sand bird came trippingover the beach 'peeping' softly to itself, as if enjoyingthe sun and sea. It came quite close to Beth, and looked at herwith a friendly eye and sat upon a warm stone, dressing its wetfeathers, quite at home. Beth smiled and felt comforted, forthe tiny thing seemed to offer its small friendship and remindher that a pleasant world was still to be enjoyed.

"Dear little bird! See, Jo, how tame it is. I like peepsbetter than the gulls. They are not so wild and handsome, butthey seem happy, confiding little things. I used to call themmy birds last summer, and Mother said they reminded her of me - busy, quaker-colored creatures, always near the shore, andalways chirping that contented little song of theirs. You arethe gull, Jo, strong and wild, fond of the storm and the wind,flying far out to sea, and happy all alone. Meg is the turtledove,and Amy is like the lark she writes about, trying to getup among the clouds, but always dropping down into its nestagain. Dear little girl! She's so ambitious, but her heart isgood and tender, and no matter how high she flies, she neverwill forget home. I hope I shall see her again, but she seemsso far away."

"She is coming in the spring, and I mean that you shall beall ready to see and enjoy her. I'm going to have you well androsy by that time," began Jo, feeling that of all the changesin Beth, the talking change was the greatest, for it seemed tocost no effort now, and she thought aloud in a way quite unlikebashful Beth.

"Jo, dear, don't hope any more. It won't do any good. I'msure of that. We won't be miserable, but enjoy being togetherwhile we wait. We'll have happy times, for I don't suffer much,and I think the tide will go out easily, if you help me."

Jo leaned down to kiss the tranquil face, and with thatsilent kiss, she dedicated herself soul and body to Beth.

She was right. There was no need of any words when theygot home, for Father and Mother saw plainly now what they hadprayed to be saved from seeing. Tired with her short journey,Beth went at once to bed, saying how glad she was to be home,and when Jo went down, she found that she would be spared thehard task of telling Beth's secret. Her father stood leaninghis head on the mantelpiece and did not turn as she came in,but her mother stretched out her arms as if for help, and Jowent to comfort her without a word.