THE COMPLETE WORKS OF LOUISA MAY ALCOTT: Novels, Short Stories, Plays & Poems (Illustrated Edition). Louisa May Alcott

I should have done," said Meg warningly.

      "Bless you, child! Mother told me."

      "That will do, Jo. I'll comfort Meg while you go and get Laurie. I shall sift the matter to the bottom, and put a stop to such pranks at once."

      Away ran Jo, and Mrs. March gently told Meg Mr. Brooke's real feelings. "Now, dear, what are your own? Do you love him enough to wait till he can make a home for you, or will you keep yourself quite free for the present?"

      "I've been so scared and worried, I don't want to have anything to do with lovers for a long while,—perhaps never," answered Meg petulantly. "If John doesn't know anything about this nonsense,don't tell him, and make Jo and Laurie hold their tongues. I won't be deceived and plagued and made a fool of,—it's a shame!"

      Seeing that Meg's usually gentle temper was roused and her pride hurt by this mischievous joke, Mrs. March soothed her by promises of entire silence, and great discretion for the future. The instant Laurie's step was heard in the hall, Meg fled into the study, and Mrs. March received the culprit alone. Jo had not told him why he was wanted, fearing he wouldn't come; but he knew the minute he saw Mrs. March's face, and stood twirling his hat, with a guilty air which convicted him at once. Jo was dismissed, but chose to march up and down the hall like a sentinel, having some fear that the prisoner might bolt. The sound of voices in the parlor rose and fell for half an hour; but what happened during that interview the girls never knew.

      When they were called in, Laurie was standing by their mother, with such a penitent face that Jo forgave him on the spot, but did not think it wise to betray the fact. Meg received his humble apology, and was much comforted by the assurance that Brooke knew nothing of the joke.

      "I'll never tell him to my dying day,—wild horses sha'n't drag it out of me; so you'll forgive me, Meg, and I'll do anything to show how out-and-out sorry I am," he added, looking very much ashamed of himself.

      "I'll try; but it was a very ungentlemanly thing to do. I didn't think you could be so sly and malicious, Laurie," replied Meg, trying to hide her maidenly confusion under a gravely reproachful air.

      "It was altogether abominable, and I don't deserve to be spoken to for a month; but you will, though, won't you?" and Laurie folded his hands together with such an imploring gesture, as he spoke in his irresistibly persuasive tone, that it was impossible to frown upon him, in spite of his scandalous behavior. Meg pardoned him, and Mrs. March's grave face relaxed, in spite of her efforts to keep sober, when she heard him declare that he would atone for his sins by all sorts of penances, and abase himself like a worm before the injured damsel.

      Jo stood aloof, meanwhile, trying to harden her heart against him, and succeeding only in primming up her face into an expression of entire disapprobation. Laurie looked at her once or twice, but, as she showed no sign of relenting, he felt injured, and turned his back on her till the others were done with him, when he made her a low bow, and walked off without a word.

      As soon as he had gone, she wished she had been more forgiving; and when Meg and her mother went upstairs, she felt lonely, and longed for Teddy. After resisting for some time, she yielded to the impulse, and, armed with a book to return, went over to the big house.

      "Is Mr. Laurence in?" asked Jo, of a housemaid, who was coming down stairs.

      "Yes, miss; but I don't believe he's seeable just yet."

      "Why not? is he ill?"

      "La, no, miss, but he's had a scene with Mr. Laurie, who is in one of his tantrums about something, which vexes the old gentleman, so I dursn't go nigh him."

      "Where is Laurie?"

      "Shut up in his room, and he won't answer, though I've been a-tapping. I don't know what's to become of the dinner, for it's ready, and there's no one to eat it."

      "I'll go and see what the matter is. I'm not afraid of either of them."

      Up went Jo, and knocked smartly on the door of Laurie's little study.

      "Stop that, or I'll open the door and make you!" called out the young gentleman, in a threatening tone.

      Jo immediately knocked again; the door flew open, and in she bounced, before Laurie could recover from his surprise. Seeing that he really was out of temper, Jo, who knew how to manage him, assumed a contrite expression, and going artistically down upon her knees, said meekly, "Please forgive me for being so cross. I came to make it up, and can't go away till I have."

      "It's all right. Get up, and don't be a goose, Jo," was the cavalier reply to her petition.

      "Thank you; I will. Could I ask what's the matter? You don't look exactly easy in your mind."

      "I've been shaken, and I won't bear it!" growled Laurie indignantly.

      "Who did it?" demanded Jo.

      "Grandfather; if it had been any one else I'd have—" and the injured youth finished his sentence by an energetic gesture of the right arm.

      "That's nothing; I often shake you, and you don't mind," said Jo soothingly.

      "Pooh! you're a girl, and it's fun; but I'll allow no man to shakeme."

      "I don't think any one would care to try it, if you looked as much like a thunder-cloud as you do now. Why were you treated so?"

      "Just because I wouldn't say what your mother wanted me for. I'd promised not to tell, and of course I wasn't going to break my word."

      "Couldn't you satisfy your grandpa in any other way?"

      "No; he would have the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. I'd have told my part of the scrape, if I could without bringing Meg in. As I couldn't, I held my tongue, and bore the scolding till the old gentleman collared me. Then I got angry, and bolted, for fear I should forget myself."

      "It wasn't nice, but he's sorry, I know; so go down and make up. I'll help you."

      "Hanged if I do! I'm not going to be lectured and pummelled by every one, just for a bit of a frolic. I was sorry about Meg, and begged pardon like a man; but I won't do it again, when I wasn't in the wrong."

      "He didn't know that."

      "He ought to trust me, and not act as if I was a baby. It's no use, Jo; he's got to learn that I'm able to take care of myself, and don't need any one's apron-string to hold on by."

      "What pepper-pots you are!" sighed Jo. "How do you mean to settle this affair?"

      "Well, he ought to beg pardon, and believe me when I say I can't tell him what the fuss's about."

      "Bless you! he won't do that."

      "I won't go down till he does."

      "Now, Teddy, be sensible; let it pass, and I'll explain what I can. You can't stay here, so what's the use of being melodramatic?"

      "I don't intend to stay here long, any way. I'll slip off and take a journey somewhere, and when grandpa misses me he'll come round fast enough."

      "I dare say; but you ought not to go and worry him."

      "Don't preach. I'll go to Washington and see Brooke; it's gay there, and I'll enjoy myself after the troubles."

      "What fun you'd have! I wish I could run off too," said Jo, forgetting her part of Mentor in lively visions of martial life at the capital.

      "Come on, then! Why not? You go and surprise your father, and I'll stir up old Brooke. It would be a glorious joke; let's do it, Jo. We'll leave a letter saying we are all right, and trot off at once. I've got money enough; it will do you good, and be no harm, as you go to your father."

      For a moment Jo looked as if she would agree; for, wild as the plan was, it just suited her. She was tired of care and confinement, longed for change, and thoughts of her father blended temptingly with the novel charms of camps and hospitals, liberty and fun. Her eyes kindled as they turned wistfully toward the window, but