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

them with a curious expression, for in the Italian part of his nature there was a touch of superstition,and he was just then in that state of half-sweet, half-bitter melancholy, when imaginative young men find significance in trifles, and food for romance everywhere. He had thought of Jo in reaching after the thorny red rose, for vivid flowers became her, and she had often worn ones like that from the greenhouse at home. The pale roses Amy gave him were the sort that the Italians lay in dead hands, never in bridal wreaths, and, for a moment, he wondered if the omen was for Jo or for himself; but the next instant his American common-sense got the better of sentimentality, and he laughed a heartier laugh than Amy had heard since he came.

      "It's good advice; you'd better take it and save your fingers," she said, thinking her speech amused him.

      "Thank you, I will," he answered in jest, and a few months later he did it in earnest.

      "Laurie, when are you going to your grandfather?" she asked presently, as she settled herself on a rustic seat.

      "Very soon."

      "You have said that a dozen times within the last three weeks."

      "I dare say; short answers save trouble."

      "He expects you, and you really ought to go."

      "Hospitable creature! I know it."

      "Then why don't you do it?"

      "Natural depravity, I suppose."

      "Natural indolence, you mean. It's really dreadful!" and Amy looked severe.

      "Not so bad as it seems, for I should only plague him if I went, so I might as well stay, and plague you a little longer, you can bear it better; in fact, I think it agrees with you excellently;" and Laurie composed himself for a lounge on the broad ledge of the balustrade.

      Amy shook her head, and opened her sketch-book with an air of resignation; but she had made up her mind to lecture "that boy," and in a minute she began again.

      "What are you doing just now?"

      "Watching lizards."

      "No, no; I mean what do you intend and wish to do?"

      "Smoke a cigarette, if you'll allow me."

      "How provoking you are! I don't approve of cigars, and I will only allow it on condition that you let me put you into my sketch; I need a figure."

      "With all the pleasure in life. How will you have me,—full-length or three-quarters, on my head or my heels? I should respectfully suggest a recumbent posture, then put yourself in also, and call it 'Dolce far niente?'"

      "Stay as you are, and go to sleep if you like. I intend to work hard," said Amy, in her most energetic tone.

      "What delightful enthusiasm!" and he leaned against a tall urn with an air of entire satisfaction.

      "What would Jo say if she saw you now?" asked Amy impatiently, hoping to stir him up by the mention of her still more energetic sister's name.

      "As usual, 'Go away, Teddy, I'm busy!'" He laughed as he spoke, but the laugh was not natural, and a shade passed over his face, for the utterance of the familiar name touched the wound that was not healed yet. Both tone and shadow struck Amy, for she had seen and heard them before, and now she looked up in time to catch a new expression on Laurie's face,—a hard, bitter look, full of pain, dissatisfaction, and regret. It was gone before she could study it, and the listless expression back again. She watched him for a moment with artistic pleasure, thinking how like an Italian he looked, as he lay basking in the sun with uncovered head, and eyes full of southern dreaminess; for he seemed to have forgotten her, and fallen into a reverie.

      "You look like the effigy of a young knight asleep on his tomb," she said, carefully tracing the well-cut profile defined against the dark stone.

      "Wish I was!"

      "That's a foolish wish, unless you have spoilt your life. You are so changed, I sometimes think—" there Amy stopped, with a half-timid, half-wistful look, more significant than her unfinished speech.

      Laurie saw and understood the affectionate anxiety which she hesitated to express, and looking straight into her eyes, said, just as he used to say it to her mother,—

      "It's all right, ma'am."

      That satisfied her and set at rest the doubts that had begun to worry her lately. It also touched her, and she showed that it did, by the cordial tone in which she said,—

      "I'm glad of that! I didn't think you'd been a very bad boy, but I fancied you might have wasted money at that wicked Baden-Baden, lost your heart to some charming Frenchwoman with a husband, or got into some of the scrapes that young men seem to consider a necessary part of a foreign tour. Don't stay out there in the sun; come and lie on the grass here, and 'let us be friendly,' as Jo used to say when we got in the sofa-corner and told secrets."

      Laurie obediently threw himself down on the turf, and began to amuse himself by sticking daisies into the ribbons of Amy's hat, that lay there.

      "I'm all ready for the secrets;" and he glanced up with a decided expression of interest in his eyes.

      "I've none to tell; you may begin."

      "Haven't one to bless myself with. I thought perhaps you'd had some news from home."

      "You have heard all that has come lately. Don't you hear often? I fancied Jo would send you volumes."

      "She's very busy; I'm roving about so, it's impossible to be regular, you know. When do you begin your great work of art, Raphaella?" he asked, changing the subject abruptly after another pause, in which he had been wondering if Amy knew his secret, and wanted to talk about it.

      "Never," she answered, with a despondent but decided air. "Rome took all the vanity out of me; for after seeing the wonders there, I felt too insignificant to live, and gave up all my foolish hopes in despair."

      "Why should you, with so much energy and talent?"

      "That's just why,—because talent isn't genius, and no amount of energy can make it so. I want to be great, or nothing. I won't be a common-place dauber, so I don't intend to try any more."

      "And what are you going to do with yourself now, if I may ask?"

      "Polish up my other talents, and be an ornament to society, if I get the chance."

      It was a characteristic speech, and sounded daring; but audacity becomes young people, and Amy's ambition had a good foundation. Laurie smiled, but he liked the spirit with which she took up a new purpose when a long-cherished one died, and spent no time lamenting.

      "Good! and here is where Fred Vaughn comes in, I fancy."

      Amy preserved a discreet silence, but there was a conscious look in her downcast face, that made Laurie sit up and say gravely,—

      "Now I'm going to play brother, and ask questions. May I?"

      "I don't promise to answer."

      "Your face will, if your tongue won't. You aren't woman of the world enough yet to hide your feelings, my dear. I heard rumors about Fred and you last year, and it's my private opinion that, if he had not been called home so suddenly and detained so long, something would have come of it—hey?"

      "That's not for me to say," was Amy's prim reply; but her lips would smile, and there was a traitorous sparkle of the eye, which betrayed that she knew her power and enjoyed the knowledge.

      "You are not engaged, I hope?" and Laurie looked very elder-brotherly and grave all of a sudden.

      "No."

      "But you will be, if he comes back and goes properly down upon his knees, won't you?"

      "Very likely."

      "Then you are fond of old Fred?"

      "I could be, if I tried."

      "But