the slippers, for he told me to take special care of Mother while
he was gone."

"I'll tell you what we'll do," said Beth, "let's each get her
something for Christmas, land not get anything for ourselves."

"That's like you, dear!  What will we get?" exclaimed Jo.

Everyone thought soberly for a minute, then Meg announced, as
if the idea was suggested by the sight of her own pretty hands,
"I shall give her a nice pair of gloves."

"Army shoes, best to be had," cried Jo.

"Some handkerchiefs, all hemmed," said Beth.

"I'll get a little bottle of cologne.  She likes it, and it won't
cost much, so I'll have some left to buy my pencils," added Amy.

"How will we give the things?" asked Meg.

"Put them on the table, and bring her in and see her open
the bundles.  Don't you remember how we used to do on our
birthdays?" answered Jo.

"I used to be so frightened when it was my turn to sit in the
chair with the crown on, and see you all come marching round to
give the presents, with a kiss.  I liked the things and the kisses, 
but it was dreadful to have you sit looking at me while I opened
the bundles," said Beth, who was toasting her face and the bread
for tea at the same time.

"Let Marmee think we are getting things for ourselves, and
then surprise her.  We must go shopping tomorrow afternoon, Meg.
There is so much to do about the play for Christmas night," said
Jo, marching up and down, with her hands behind her back, and her
nose in the air.

"I don't mean to act any more after this time.  I'm getting
too old for such things," observed Meg, who was as much a child
as ever about `dressing-up' frolics.

"You won't stop, I know, as long as you can trail round in a
white gown with your hair down, and wear gold-paper jewelry.
You are the best actress we've got, and there'll be an end
of everything if you quit the boards," said Jo.  "We ought
to rehearse tonight.  Come here, Amy, and do the fainting scene,
for you are as stiff as a poker in that."

"I can't help it.  I never saw anyone faint, and I don't choose
to make myself all black and blue, tumbling flat as you do.  If I
can go down easily, I'll drop.  If I can't, I shall fall into a
chair and be graceful.  I don't care if Hugo does come at me with
a pistol," returned Amy, who was not gifted with dramatic power, 
but was chosen because she was small enough to be borne out shrieking
by the villain of the piece.

"Do it this way.  Clasp your hands so, and stagger across the
room, crying frantically, `Roderigo Save me! Save me!' and away
went Jo, with a melodramatic scream which was truly thrilling.

Amy followed, but she poked her hands out stiffly before her, 
and jerked herself along as if she went by machinery, and her "Ow!"
was more suggestive of pins being run into her than of fear and
anguish.  Jo gave a despairing groan, and Meg laughed outright, 
while Beth let her bread burn as she watched the fun with interest.
"It's no use!  Do the best you can when the time comes, and if
the audience laughs, don't blame me.  Come on, Meg."

"Then things went smoothly, for Don Pedro defied the world in
a speech of two pages without a single break.  Hagar, the witch, 
chanted an awful incantation over her kettleful of simmering toads, 
with weird effect.  Roderigo rent his chains asunder manfully, and
Hugo died in agonies of remorse and arsenic, with a wild, "Ha! Ha!"

"It's the best we've had yet," said Meg, as the dead villain
sat up and rubbed his elbows.

"I don't see how you can write and act such splendid things, 
Jo.  You're a regular Shakespeare!" exclaimed Beth, who firmly
believed that her sisters were gifted with wonderful genius in all
things.

"Not quite," replied Jo modestly.  "I do think THE WITCHES CURSE, 
an Operatic Tragedy is rather a nice thing, but I'd like to try
McBETH, if we only had a trapdoor for Banquo.  I always wanted to
do the killing part.  `Is that a dagger that I see before me?"
muttered Jo, rolling her eyes and clutching at the air, as she had
seen a famous tragedian do.

"No, it's the toasting fork, with Mother's shoe on it instead
of the bread.  Beth's stage-struck!" cried Meg, and the rehearsal
ended in a general burst of laughter.

"Glad to find you so merry, my girls," said a cheery voice at
the door, and actors and audience turned to welcome a tall, motherly
lady with a `can I help you' look about her which was truly delightful.
She was not elegantly dressed, but a noble-looking woman, and the
girls thought the gray cloak and unfashionable bonnet covered the most
splendid mother in the world.

"Well, dearies, how have you got on today?  There was so much to
do, getting the boxes ready to go tomorrow, that I didn't come home
to dinner.  Has anyone called, Beth?  How is your cold, Meg?  Jo, 
you look tired to death.  Come and kiss me, baby."

While making these maternal inquiries Mrs. March got her wet
things off, her warm slippers on, and sitting down in the easy
chair, drew Amy to her lap, preparing to enjoy the happiest hour
of her busy day.  The girls flew about, trying to make things
comfortable, each in her own way.  Meg arranged the tea table, Jo
brought wood and set chairs, dropping, over-turning, and clattering
everything she touched.  Beth trotted to and fro between parlor
kitchen, quiet and busy, while Amy gave directions to everyone, as
she sat with her hands folded.

As they gathered about the table, Mrs. March said, with a
particularly happy face, "I've got a treat for you after supper."

A quick, bright smile went round like a streak of sunshine.
Beth clapped her hands, regardless of the biscuit she held,
and Jo tossed up her napkin, crying, "A letter!  A letter!  Three
cheers for Father!"

"Yes, a nice long letter.  He is well, and thinks he shall
get through the cold season better than we feared.  He sends all
sorts of loving wishes for Christmas, and an especial message
to you girls," said Mrs. March, patting her pocket as if she
had got a treasure there.

"Hurry and get done!  Don't stop to quirk your little finger
and simper over your plate, Amy," cried Jo, choking on her tea
and dropping her bread, butter side down, on the carpet in her
haste to get at the treat.

Beth ate no more, but crept away to sit in her shadowy corner
and brood over the delight to come, till the others were ready.

"I think it was so splendid in Father to go as chaplain
when he was too old to be drafted, and not strong enough for
a soldier," said Meg warmly.

"Don't I wish I could go as a drummer, a vivan--what's its
name?  Or a nurse, so I could be near him and help him," exclaimed
Jo, with a groan.

"It must be very disagreeable to sleep in a tent, and eat
all sorts of bad-tasting things, and drink out of a tin mug,"
sighed Amy.

"When will he come home, Marmee?  asked Beth, with a little
quiver in her voice.

"Not for many months, dear, unless he is sick.  He will stay
and do his work faithfully as long as he can, and we won't ask
for him back a minute sooner than he can be spared.  Now come and
hear the letter."

They all drew to the fire, Mother in the big chair with Beth
at her feet, Meg and Amy perched on either arm of the chair, and
Jo leaning on the back, where no one would see any sign of emotion
if the letter should happen to be touching.  Very few letters were
written in those hard times that were not touching, especially
those which fathers sent home.  In this one little was said of the
hardships endured, the dangers faced, or the homesickness conquered.
It was a cheerful, hopeful letter, full of lively descriptions
of camp life, marches, and military news, and only at the end
did the writer's heart over-flow with fatherly love and longing
for the little girls at home.

"Give them all of my dear love and a kiss.  Tell them I think
of them by day, pray for them by night, and find my best comfort
in their affection at all times.  A year seems very long to wait
before I see them, but remind them that while we wait we may all
work, so that these hard days need not be wasted.  I know they will
remember all I said to them, that they will be loving children to
you, will do their duty faithfully, fight their bosom enemies bravely, 
and conquer themselves so beautifully that when I come back to them
I may be fonder and prouder than ever of my little women."
Everybody sniffed when they came to that part.  Jo wasn't
ashamed of the great tear that dropped off the end of her nose, and
Amy never minded the rumpling of her curls as she hid her face on
her mother's shoulder and sobbed out, "I am a selfish girl!  But
I'll truly try to be better, so he mayn't be disappointed in me
by-and-by."

We all will," cried Meg.  "I think too much of my looks and
hate to work, but won't any more, if I can help it."

"I'll try and be what he loves to call me, `a little woman'
and not be rough and wild, but do my duty here instead of wanting
to be somewhere else," said Jo, thinking that keeping her temper
at home was a much harder task than facing a rebel or two down South.

Beth said nothing, but wiped away her tears with the blue army
sock and began to knit with all her might, losing no time in doing
the duty that lay nearest her, while she resolved in her quiet
little soul to be all that Father hoped to find her when the year
brought round the happy coming home.