Little Women. Луиза Мэй Олкотт

I may, and if I pay for myself, Laurie hasn’t anything to do with it.«

      »You can’t sit with us, for our seats are reserved, and you mustn’t sit alone, so Laurie will give you his place, and that will spoil our pleasure. Or he’ll get another seat for you, and that isn’t proper when you weren’t asked. You shan’t stir a step, so you may just stay where you are,« scolded Jo, crosser than ever, having just pricked her finger in her hurry.

      Sitting on the floor with one boot on, Amy began to cry and Meg to reason with her, when Laurie called from below, and the two girls hurried down, leaving their sister wailing. For now and then she forgot her grown-up ways and acted like a spoiled child. Just as the party was setting out, Amy called over the banisters in a threatening tone, »You’ll be sorry for this, Jo March, see if you ain’t.«

      »Fiddlesticks!« returned Jo, slamming the door.

      They had a charming time, for The Seven Castles Of The Diamond Lake was as brilliant and wonderful as heart could wish. But in spite of the comical red imps, sparkling elves, and the gorgeous princes and princesses, Jo’s pleasure had a drop of bitterness in it. The fairy queen’s yellow curls reminded her of Amy, and between the acts she amused herself with wondering what her sister would do to make her ›sorry for it‹. She and Amy had had many lively skirmishes in the course of their lives, for both had quick tempers and were apt to be violent when fairly roused. Amy teased Jo, and Jo irritated Amy, and semioccasional explosions occurred, of which both were much ashamed afterward. Although the oldest, Jo had the least self-control, and had hard times trying to curb the fiery spirit which was continually getting her into trouble. Her anger never lasted long, and having humbly confessed her fault, she sincerely repented and tried to do better. Her sisters used to say that they rather liked to get Jo into a fury because she was such an angel afterward. Poor Jo tried desperately to be good, but her bosom enemy was always ready to flame up and defeat her, and it took years of patient effort to subdue it.

      When they got home, they found Amy reading in the parlor. She assumed an injured air as they came in, never lifted her eyes from her book, or asked a single question. Perhaps curiosity might have conquered resentment, if Beth had not been there to inquire and receive a glowing description of the play. On going up to put away her best hat, Jo’s first look was toward the bureau, for in their last quarrel Amy had soothed her feelings by turning Jo’s top drawer upside down on the floor. Everything was in its place, however, and after a hasty glance into her various closets, bags, and boxes, Jo decided that Amy had forgiven and forgotten her wrongs.

      There Jo was mistaken, for next day she made a discovery which produced a tempest. Meg, Beth, and Amy were sitting together, late in the afternoon, when Jo burst into the room, looking excited and demanding breathlessly, »Has anyone taken my book?«

      Meg and Beth said, »No.« at once, and looked surprised. Amy poked the fire and said nothing. Jo saw her color rise and was down upon her in a minute.

      »Amy, you’ve got it!«

      »No, I haven’t.«

      »You know where it is, then!«

      »No, I don’t.«

      »That’s a fib!« cried Jo, taking her by the shoulders, and looking fierce enough to frighten a much braver child than Amy.

      »It isn’t. I haven’t got it, don’t know where it is now, and don’t care.«

      »You know something about it, and you’d better tell at once, or I’ll make you.« And Jo gave her a slight shake.

      »Scold as much as you like, you’ll never see your silly old book again,« cried Amy, getting excited in her turn.

      »Why not?«

      »I burned it up.«

      »What! My little book I was so fond of, and worked over, and meant to finish before Father got home? Have you really burned it?« said Jo, turning very pale, while her eyes kindled and her hands clutched Amy nervously.

      »Yes, I did! I told you I’d make you pay for being so cross yesterday, and I have, so...«

      Amy got no farther, for Jo’s hot temper mastered her, and she shook Amy till her teeth chattered in her head, crying in a passion of grief and anger...

      »You wicked, wicked girl! I never can write it again, and I’ll never forgive you as long as I live.«

      Meg flew to rescue Amy, and Beth to pacify Jo, but Jo was quite beside herself, and with a parting box on her sister’s ear, she rushed out of the room up to the old sofa in the garret, and finished her fight alone.

      The storm cleared up below, for Mrs. March came home, and, having heard the story, soon brought Amy to a sense of the wrong she had done her sister. Jo’s book was the pride of her heart, and was regarded by her family as a literary sprout of great promise. It was only half a dozen little fairy tales, but Jo had worked over them patiently, putting her whole heart into her work, hoping to make something good enough to print. She had just copied them with great care, and had destroyed the old manuscript, so that Amy’s bonfire had consumed the loving work of several years. It seemed a small loss to others, but to Jo it was a dreadful calamity, and she felt that it never could be made up to her. Beth mourned as for a departed kitten, and Meg refused to defend her pet. Mrs. March looked grave and grieved, and Amy felt that no one would love her till she had asked pardon for the act which she now regretted more than any of them.

      When the tea bell rang, Jo appeared, looking so grim and unapproachable that it took all Amy’s courage to say meekly...

      »Please forgive me, Jo. I’m very, very sorry.«

      »I never shall forgive you,« was Jo’s stern answer, and from that moment she ignored Amy entirely.

      No one spoke of the great trouble, not even Mrs. March, for all had learned by experience that when Jo was in that mood words were wasted, and the wisest course was to wait till some little accident, or her own generous nature, softened Jo’s resentment and healed the breach. It was not a happy evening, for though they sewed as usual, while their mother read aloud from Bremer, Scott, or Edgeworth, something was wanting, and the sweet home peace was disturbed. They felt this most when singing time came, for Beth could only play, Jo stood dumb as a stone, and Amy broke down, so Meg and Mother sang alone. But in spite of their efforts to be as cheery as larks, the flutelike voices did not seem to chord as well as usual, and all felt out of tune.

      As Jo received her good-night kiss, Mrs. March whispered gently, »My dear, don’t let the sun go down upon your anger. Forgive each other, help each other, and begin again tomorrow.«

      Jo wanted to lay her head down on that motherly bosom, and cry her grief and anger all away, but tears were an unmanly weakness, and she felt so deeply injured that she really couldn’t quite forgive yet. So she winked hard, shook her head, and said gruffly because Amy was listening, »It was an abominable thing, and she doesn’t deserve to be forgiven.«

      With that she marched off to bed, and there was no merry or confidential gossip that night.

      Amy was much offended that her overtures of peace had been repulsed, and began to wish she had not humbled herself, to feel more injured than ever, and to plume herself on her superior virtue in a way which was particularly exasperating. Jo still looked like a thunder cloud, and nothing went well all day. It was bitter cold in the morning, she dropped her precious turnover in the gutter, Aunt March had an attack of the fidgets, Meg was sensitive, Beth would look grieved and wistful when she got home, and Amy kept making remarks about people who were always talking about being good and yet wouldn’t even try when other people set them a virtuous example.

      »Everybody is so hateful, I’ll ask Laurie to go skating. He is always kind and jolly, and will put me to rights, I know,« said Jo to herself, and off she went.

      Amy heard the clash of skates, and looked out with an impatient exclamation.

      »There! She promised I should go next time, for this is the last ice we shall have. But it’s no use to ask such a crosspatch to take me.«

      »Don’t