`Girls, where are you going?' asked Amy, coming into their room one Saturday afternoon, and finding them getting ready to go out, with an air of secrecy, which excited her curiosity.
`Never mind; little girls shouldn't ask questions,' returned Jo, sharply.
Now if there is anything mortifying to our feelings, when we are young, it is to be told that; and to be bidden to `run away, dear', is still more trying to us. Amy bridled up at this insult, and determined to find out the secret, if she teased for an hour. Turning to Meg, who never refused her anything very long, she said coaxingly, `Do tell me! I should think you might let me go too; for Beth is fussing over her piano, and I haven't got anything to do, and am so lonely.'
`I can't, dear, because you aren't invited,' began Meg; but Jo broke in impatiently, `Now, Meg, be quiet, or you will spoil it all. You can't go, Amy; so don't be a baby and whine about it.'
`You are going somewhere with Laurie, I know you are; you were whispering and laughing together, on the sofa, last night, and you stopped when I came in. Aren't you going with him?'
`Yes, we are; now do be still and stop bothering.' Amy held her tongue, but used her eyes, and saw Meg slip a fan into her pocket.
`I know! I know! you're going to the hall to see "The Seven Castles"!' she cried, adding resolutely, `and I shall go, for Mother said I might see it; and I've got my rag-money, and it was mean not to tell me in time.'
`Just listen to me a minute, and be a good child,' said Meg, soothingly. `Mother doesn't wish you to go this week, because your eyes are not well enough yet to bear the light of this fairy piece. Next week you can go with Beth and Hannah, and have a nice time.'
`I don't like that half as well as going with you and Laurie. Please let me; I've been sick with this cold so long, and shut up, I'm dying for some fun. Do, Meg! I'll be ever so good,' pleaded Amy, looking as pathetic as she could.
`Suppose we take her. I don't believe Mother would mind, if we bundle her up well,' began Meg.
`If she goes I shan't; and if I don't, Laurie won't like it; and it will be very rude, after he invited only us, to go and drag in Amy. I should think she'd hate to poke herself where she isn't wanted,' said Jo, crossly, for she disliked the trouble of overseeing a fidgety child, when she wanted to enjoy herself. Her tone and manner angered Amy, who began to put her boots on, saying, in her most aggravating way, `I shall go; Meg says 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 spoilt child. Just as the party were setting out, Amy called over the bannisters, in a threatening voice, `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 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, Jo irritated Amy, and semi-occasional explosions occurred, of which both were much ashamed afterwards. 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 afterwards. 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 parlour. 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 towards 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 colour 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 burnt 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 burnt 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 further, 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 flute-like 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 don'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 thundercloud, 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 fidgets, Meg was pensive, 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 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 cross-patch to take me.'
`Don't say that; you were very naughty, and it is hard to forgive the loss of her precious little book; but I think she might do it now, and I guess she will, if you try her at the right minute,' said Meg. `Go after them; don't say anything till Jo has got good-natured with Laurie, then take a quiet minute, and just kiss her, or do some kind thing, and I'm sure she'll be friends again with all her heart.'
`I'll try,' said Amy, for the advice suited her; and, after a flurry to get ready, she ran after the friends, who were just disappearing over the hill. It was not far to the river, but both were ready before Amy reached them. Jo saw her coming, and turned her back; Laurie did not see, for he was carefully skating along the shore, sounding the ice, for a warm spell had preceded the cold snap.
`I'll go on to the first bend, and see if it's all right, before we begin to race,' Amy heard him say, as he shot away, looking like a young Russian, in his fur-trimmed coat and cap. Jo heard Amy panting after her run, stamping her feet and blowing her fingers, as she tried to put her skates on; but Jo never turned, and went slowly zigzagging down the river, taking a bitter, unhappy sort of satisfaction in her sister's troubles. She had cherished her anger till it grew strong, and took possession of her, as evil thoughts and feelings always do, unless cast out at once. As Laurie turned the bend, he shouted back: `Keep near the shore, it isn't safe in the middle.'
Jo heard, but Amy was just struggling to her feet, and did not catch a word. Jo glanced over her shoulder, and the little demon she was harbouring said in her ear: `No matter whether she heard or not, let her take care of herself.' Laurie had vanished round the bend; Jo was just at the turn, and Amy, far behind, striking out towards the smoother ice in the middle of the river. For a minute Jo stood still, with a strange feeling at her heart; then she resolved to go on, but something held and turned her round, just in time to see Amy throw up her hands and go down, with a sudden crash of rotten ice, the splash of water, and a cry that made Jo's heart stand still with fear. She tried to call Laurie, but her voice was gone; she tried to rush forward, but her feet seemed to have no strength in them; and, for a second, she could only stand motionless, staring, with a terror-stricken face, at the little blue hood above the black water. Something rushed swiftly by her, and Laurie's voice cried out: `Bring a rail; quick, quick!'
How she did it, she never knew; but for the next few minutes she worked as if possessed, blindly obeying Laurie, who was quite self-possessed, and, lying flat, held Amy up by his arm and hockey stick till Jo dragged a rail from the fence, and together they got the child out, more frightened than hurt.
`Now then, we must walk her home as fast as we can; pile our things on her, while I get off these confounded skates,' cried Laurie, wrapping his coat round Amy, and tugging away at the straps, which never seemed so intricate before.
Shivering, dripping, and crying, they got Amy home; and, after an exciting time of it, she fell asleep, rolled in blankets, before a hot fire. During the bustle Jo had scarcely spoken, but flown about looking pale and wild, with her things half off, her dress torn, and her hands cut and bruised by ice and rails and refractory buckles. When Amy was comfortably asleep, the house quiet, and Mrs. March sitting by the bed, she called Jo to her, and began to bind up the hurt hands.
`Are you sure she is safe?' whispered Jo, looking remorsefully at the golden head, which might have been swept away from her sight for ever under the treacherous ice.
`Quite safe, dear; she is not hurt, and won't even take cold, I think, you were so sensible in covering her and getting her home quickly,' replied her mother, cheerfully.
`Laurie did it all; I only let her go. Mother, if she should de, it would be my fault'; and Jo dropped down beside the bed, in a passion of penitent tears, telling all that had happened, bitterly condemning her hardness of heart, and sobbing out her gratitude for being spared the heavy punishment which might have come upon her.
`It's my dreadful temper! I try to cure it; I think I have, and then it breaks out worse than ever. Oh, Mother, what shall I do? what shall I do?' cried poor Jo, in despair.
`Watch and pray, dear; never get tired of trying; and never think it is impossible to conquer your fault,' said Mrs. March, drawing the blowzy head to her shoulder, and kissing the wet cheek so tenderly that Jo cried harder than ever.
`You don't know, and you can't guess how bad it is! It seems as if I could do anything when I'm in a passion; I get so savage, I could hurt anyone, and enjoy it. I'm afraid I shall do something dreadful some day, and spoil my life, and make everybody hate me. Oh, Mother, help me, do help me!'
`I will, my child, I will. Don't cry so bitterly, but remember this day, and resolve, with all your soul, that you will never know another like it. Jo, dear, we all have our temptations, some far greater than yours, and it often takes us all our lives to conquer them. You think your temper is the worst in the world; but mine used to be just like it.'
`Yours, Mother? Why, you are never angry!' and, for the moment, Jo forgot remorse in surprise.
`I've been trying to cure it for forty years, and have only succeeded in controlling it. I am angry nearly every day of my life, Jo; but I have learned not to show it; and I still hope to learn not to feel it, though it may take me another forty years to do so.'
The patience and the humility of the face she loved so well was a better lesson to Jo than the wisest lecture, the sharpest reproof. She felt comforted at once by the sympathy and confidence given her; the knowledge that her mother had a fault like hers, and tried to mend it, made her own easier to bear and strengthened her resolution to care it; though forty years seemed rather a long time to watch and pray, to a girl of fifteen.
`Mother, are you angry when you fold your lips tight together, and go out of the room sometimes, when Aunt March scolds, or people worry you?' asked Jo, feeling nearer and dearer to her mother than ever before.
`Yes, I've learned to check the hasty words that rise to my lips; and when I feel that they mean to break out against my will, I just go away a minute, and give myself a little shake for being so weak and wicked,' answered Mrs. March, with a sigh and a smile, as she smoothed and fastened up Jo's dishevelled hair.
`How did you learn to keep still? That is what troubles me - for the sharp words fly out before I know what I'm about; and the more I say the worse I get, till it's a pleasure to hurt people's feelings, and say dreadful things. `Tell me how you do it, Marmee dear.'
`My good mother used to help me——'
`As you do us——' interrupted Jo, with a grateful kiss.
`But I lost her when I was a little older than you are, and for years had to struggle on alone, for I was too proud to confess my weakness to anyone else. I had a hard time, Jo, and shed a good many bitter tears over my failures; for, in spite of my efforts, I never seemed to get on. Then your father came, and I was so happy that I found it easy to be good. But by and by, when I had four little daughters round me, and we were poor, then the old trouble began again; for I am not patient by nature, and it tried me very much to see my children wanting anything.'
`Poor Mother! What helped you then?'
`Your father, Jo. He never loses patience - never doubts or complains - but always hopes and works and waits so cheerfully that one is ashamed to do otherwise before him. He helped and comforted me, and showed me that I must try to practise all the virtues I would have my little girls possess, for I was their example. It was easier to try for your sakes than for my own; a startled or surprised look from one of you, when I spoke sharply, rebuked me more than any words could have done; and the love, respect, and confidence of my children was the sweetest reward I could receive for my efforts to be the woman I would have them copy.
`Oh Mother, if I'm ever half as good as you, I shall be satisfied,' cried Jo, much touched.
`I hope you will be a great deal better, dear; but you must keep watch over your "bosom enemy" as Father calls it, or it may sadden, if not spoil your life. You have had a warning; remember it, and try with heart and soul to master this quick temper, before it brings you greater sorrow and regret than you have known today.'
`I will try, Mother: I truly will. But you must help me, remind me, and keep me from flying out. I used to see Father sometimes put his finger on his lips, and look at you with a very kind but sober face, and you always folded your lips tight or went away: was he reminding you then?' asked Jo, softly.
`Yes; I asked him to help me so, and he never forgot it, but saved me from many a sharp word by that little gesture and kind look.'
Jo saw that her mother's eyes filled and her lips trembled as she spoke; and, fearing that she had said too much, she whispered, anxiously, `Was it wrong to watch you, and to speak of it! I didn't mean to be rude, but it's so comfortable to say all I think if you, and feel so safe and happy here.'
`My Jo, you may say anything to your mother, for it is my greatest happiness and pride to feel that my girls confide in me, and know how much I love them.'
`I thought I'd grieved you.'
`No, dear; but speaking of Father reminded me how much I miss him, how much I owe him, and how faithfully I should watch and work to keep his little daughters safe and good for him.'
`Yet you told him to go, Mother, and didn't cry when he went, and never complain now, or seem as if you needed any help,' said Jo, wondering.
`I gave my best to the country I love, and kept my tears till he was gone. Why should I complain, when we both have merely done our duty, and will surely be the happier for it in the end? If I don't seem to need help, it is because I have a better friend even than Father to comfort and sustain me. My child, the troubles and temptations of your life are beginning, and may be many; but you can overcome and outlive them all if you learn to feel the strength and tenderness of your Heavenly Father as you do that of your earthly one. The more you love and trust Him, the nearer you will feel to Him, and the less you will depend on human power and wisdom. His love and care never tire or change, can never be taken from you, but may become the source of lifelong peace, happiness, and strength. Believe this heartily, and go to God with all your little cares, and hopes, and sins, and sorrows, as freely and confidingly as you come to your mother.'
Jo's only answer was to hold her mother close, and, in the silence which followed, the sincerest prayer she had ever prayed left her heart without words; for in that sad yet happy hour she had learned not only the bitterness of remorse and despair, but the sweetness of self-denial and self-control; and, led by her mother's hand, she had drawn nearer to the friend who welcomes every child with a love stronger than that of any father, tenderer than that of any mother.
Amy stirred, and sighed in her sleep; and, as if eager to begin at once to mend her fault, Jo looked up with an expression on her face which it had never worn before.
`I let the sun go down on my anger; I wouldn't forgive her, and today, if it hadn't been for Laurie, it might have been too late! How could I be so wicked?' said Jo, half aloud, as she leaned over her sister, softly stroking the wet hair scattered on the pillow.
As if she heard, Amy opened her eyes, and held out her arms, with a smile that went straight to Jo's heart. Neither said a word, but they hugged one another close, in spite of the blankets, and everything was forgiven and forgotten in one hearty kiss.
`Girls, where are you going?' asked Amy, coming into their room one Saturday afternoon, and finding them getting ready to go out, with an air of secrecy, which excited her curiosity.
`Never mind; little girls shouldn't ask questions,' returned Jo, sharply.
Now if there is anything mortifying to our feelings, when we are young, it is to be told that; and to be bidden to `run away, dear', is still more trying to us. Amy bridled up at this insult, and determined to find out the secret, if she teased for an hour. Turning to Meg, who never refused her anything very long, she said coaxingly, `Do tell me! I should think you might let me go too; for Beth is fussing over her piano, and I haven't got anything to do, and am so lonely.'
`I can't, dear, because you aren't invited,' began Meg; but Jo broke in impatiently, `Now, Meg, be quiet, or you will spoil it all. You can't go, Amy; so don't be a baby and whine about it.'
`You are going somewhere with Laurie, I know you are; you were whispering and laughing together, on the sofa, last night, and you stopped when I came in. Aren't you going with him?'
`Yes, we are; now do be still and stop bothering.' Amy held her tongue, but used her eyes, and saw Meg slip a fan into her pocket.
`I know! I know! you're going to the hall to see "The Seven Castles"!' she cried, adding resolutely, `and I shall go, for Mother said I might see it; and I've got my rag-money, and it was mean not to tell me in time.'
`Just listen to me a minute, and be a good child,' said Meg, soothingly. `Mother doesn't wish you to go this week, because your eyes are not well enough yet to bear the light of this fairy piece. Next week you can go with Beth and Hannah, and have a nice time.'
`I don't like that half as well as going with you and Laurie. Please let me; I've been sick with this cold so long, and shut up, I'm dying for some fun. Do, Meg! I'll be ever so good,' pleaded Amy, looking as pathetic as she could.
`Suppose we take her. I don't believe Mother would mind, if we bundle her up well,' began Meg.
`If she goes I shan't; and if I don't, Laurie won't like it; and it will be very rude, after he invited only us, to go and drag in Amy. I should think she'd hate to poke herself where she isn't wanted,' said Jo, crossly, for she disliked the trouble of overseeing a fidgety child, when she wanted to enjoy herself. Her tone and manner angered Amy, who began to put her boots on, saying, in her most aggravating way, `I shall go; Meg says 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 spoilt child. Just as the party were setting out, Amy called over the bannisters, in a threatening voice, `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 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, Jo irritated Amy, and semi-occasional explosions occurred, of which both were much ashamed afterwards. 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 afterwards. 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 parlour. 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 towards 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 colour 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 burnt 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 burnt 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 further, 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 flute-like 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 don'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 thundercloud, 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 fidgets, Meg was pensive, 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 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 cross-patch to take me.'
`Don't say that; you were very naughty, and it is hard to forgive the loss of her precious little book; but I think she might do it now, and I guess she will, if you try her at the right minute,' said Meg. `Go after them; don't say anything till Jo has got good-natured with Laurie, then take a quiet minute, and just kiss her, or do some kind thing, and I'm sure she'll be friends again with all her heart.'
`I'll try,' said Amy, for the advice suited her; and, after a flurry to get ready, she ran after the friends, who were just disappearing over the hill. It was not far to the river, but both were ready before Amy reached them. Jo saw her coming, and turned her back; Laurie did not see, for he was carefully skating along the shore, sounding the ice, for a warm spell had preceded the cold snap.
`I'll go on to the first bend, and see if it's all right, before we begin to race,' Amy heard him say, as he shot away, looking like a young Russian, in his fur-trimmed coat and cap. Jo heard Amy panting after her run, stamping her feet and blowing her fingers, as she tried to put her skates on; but Jo never turned, and went slowly zigzagging down the river, taking a bitter, unhappy sort of satisfaction in her sister's troubles. She had cherished her anger till it grew strong, and took possession of her, as evil thoughts and feelings always do, unless cast out at once. As Laurie turned the bend, he shouted back: `Keep near the shore, it isn't safe in the middle.'
Jo heard, but Amy was just struggling to her feet, and did not catch a word. Jo glanced over her shoulder, and the little demon she was harbouring said in her ear: `No matter whether she heard or not, let her take care of herself.' Laurie had vanished round the bend; Jo was just at the turn, and Amy, far behind, striking out towards the smoother ice in the middle of the river. For a minute Jo stood still, with a strange feeling at her heart; then she resolved to go on, but something held and turned her round, just in time to see Amy throw up her hands and go down, with a sudden crash of rotten ice, the splash of water, and a cry that made Jo's heart stand still with fear. She tried to call Laurie, but her voice was gone; she tried to rush forward, but her feet seemed to have no strength in them; and, for a second, she could only stand motionless, staring, with a terror-stricken face, at the little blue hood above the black water. Something rushed swiftly by her, and Laurie's voice cried out: `Bring a rail; quick, quick!'
How she did it, she never knew; but for the next few minutes she worked as if possessed, blindly obeying Laurie, who was quite self-possessed, and, lying flat, held Amy up by his arm and hockey stick till Jo dragged a rail from the fence, and together they got the child out, more frightened than hurt.
`Now then, we must walk her home as fast as we can; pile our things on her, while I get off these confounded skates,' cried Laurie, wrapping his coat round Amy, and tugging away at the straps, which never seemed so intricate before.
Shivering, dripping, and crying, they got Amy home; and, after an exciting time of it, she fell asleep, rolled in blankets, before a hot fire. During the bustle Jo had scarcely spoken, but flown about looking pale and wild, with her things half off, her dress torn, and her hands cut and bruised by ice and rails and refractory buckles. When Amy was comfortably asleep, the house quiet, and Mrs. March sitting by the bed, she called Jo to her, and began to bind up the hurt hands.
`Are you sure she is safe?' whispered Jo, looking remorsefully at the golden head, which might have been swept away from her sight for ever under the treacherous ice.
`Quite safe, dear; she is not hurt, and won't even take cold, I think, you were so sensible in covering her and getting her home quickly,' replied her mother, cheerfully.
`Laurie did it all; I only let her go. Mother, if she should de, it would be my fault'; and Jo dropped down beside the bed, in a passion of penitent tears, telling all that had happened, bitterly condemning her hardness of heart, and sobbing out her gratitude for being spared the heavy punishment which might have come upon her.
`It's my dreadful temper! I try to cure it; I think I have, and then it breaks out worse than ever. Oh, Mother, what shall I do? what shall I do?' cried poor Jo, in despair.
`Watch and pray, dear; never get tired of trying; and never think it is impossible to conquer your fault,' said Mrs. March, drawing the blowzy head to her shoulder, and kissing the wet cheek so tenderly that Jo cried harder than ever.
`You don't know, and you can't guess how bad it is! It seems as if I could do anything when I'm in a passion; I get so savage, I could hurt anyone, and enjoy it. I'm afraid I shall do something dreadful some day, and spoil my life, and make everybody hate me. Oh, Mother, help me, do help me!'
`I will, my child, I will. Don't cry so bitterly, but remember this day, and resolve, with all your soul, that you will never know another like it. Jo, dear, we all have our temptations, some far greater than yours, and it often takes us all our lives to conquer them. You think your temper is the worst in the world; but mine used to be just like it.'
`Yours, Mother? Why, you are never angry!' and, for the moment, Jo forgot remorse in surprise.
`I've been trying to cure it for forty years, and have only succeeded in controlling it. I am angry nearly every day of my life, Jo; but I have learned not to show it; and I still hope to learn not to feel it, though it may take me another forty years to do so.'
The patience and the humility of the face she loved so well was a better lesson to Jo than the wisest lecture, the sharpest reproof. She felt comforted at once by the sympathy and confidence given her; the knowledge that her mother had a fault like hers, and tried to mend it, made her own easier to bear and strengthened her resolution to care it; though forty years seemed rather a long time to watch and pray, to a girl of fifteen.
`Mother, are you angry when you fold your lips tight together, and go out of the room sometimes, when Aunt March scolds, or people worry you?' asked Jo, feeling nearer and dearer to her mother than ever before.
`Yes, I've learned to check the hasty words that rise to my lips; and when I feel that they mean to break out against my will, I just go away a minute, and give myself a little shake for being so weak and wicked,' answered Mrs. March, with a sigh and a smile, as she smoothed and fastened up Jo's dishevelled hair.
`How did you learn to keep still? That is what troubles me - for the sharp words fly out before I know what I'm about; and the more I say the worse I get, till it's a pleasure to hurt people's feelings, and say dreadful things. `Tell me how you do it, Marmee dear.'
`My good mother used to help me——'
`As you do us——' interrupted Jo, with a grateful kiss.
`But I lost her when I was a little older than you are, and for years had to struggle on alone, for I was too proud to confess my weakness to anyone else. I had a hard time, Jo, and shed a good many bitter tears over my failures; for, in spite of my efforts, I never seemed to get on. Then your father came, and I was so happy that I found it easy to be good. But by and by, when I had four little daughters round me, and we were poor, then the old trouble began again; for I am not patient by nature, and it tried me very much to see my children wanting anything.'
`Poor Mother! What helped you then?'
`Your father, Jo. He never loses patience - never doubts or complains - but always hopes and works and waits so cheerfully that one is ashamed to do otherwise before him. He helped and comforted me, and showed me that I must try to practise all the virtues I would have my little girls possess, for I was their example. It was easier to try for your sakes than for my own; a startled or surprised look from one of you, when I spoke sharply, rebuked me more than any words could have done; and the love, respect, and confidence of my children was the sweetest reward I could receive for my efforts to be the woman I would have them copy.
`Oh Mother, if I'm ever half as good as you, I shall be satisfied,' cried Jo, much touched.
`I hope you will be a great deal better, dear; but you must keep watch over your "bosom enemy" as Father calls it, or it may sadden, if not spoil your life. You have had a warning; remember it, and try with heart and soul to master this quick temper, before it brings you greater sorrow and regret than you have known today.'
`I will try, Mother: I truly will. But you must help me, remind me, and keep me from flying out. I used to see Father sometimes put his finger on his lips, and look at you with a very kind but sober face, and you always folded your lips tight or went away: was he reminding you then?' asked Jo, softly.
`Yes; I asked him to help me so, and he never forgot it, but saved me from many a sharp word by that little gesture and kind look.'
Jo saw that her mother's eyes filled and her lips trembled as she spoke; and, fearing that she had said too much, she whispered, anxiously, `Was it wrong to watch you, and to speak of it! I didn't mean to be rude, but it's so comfortable to say all I think if you, and feel so safe and happy here.'
`My Jo, you may say anything to your mother, for it is my greatest happiness and pride to feel that my girls confide in me, and know how much I love them.'
`I thought I'd grieved you.'
`No, dear; but speaking of Father reminded me how much I miss him, how much I owe him, and how faithfully I should watch and work to keep his little daughters safe and good for him.'
`Yet you told him to go, Mother, and didn't cry when he went, and never complain now, or seem as if you needed any help,' said Jo, wondering.
`I gave my best to the country I love, and kept my tears till he was gone. Why should I complain, when we both have merely done our duty, and will surely be the happier for it in the end? If I don't seem to need help, it is because I have a better friend even than Father to comfort and sustain me. My child, the troubles and temptations of your life are beginning, and may be many; but you can overcome and outlive them all if you learn to feel the strength and tenderness of your Heavenly Father as you do that of your earthly one. The more you love and trust Him, the nearer you will feel to Him, and the less you will depend on human power and wisdom. His love and care never tire or change, can never be taken from you, but may become the source of lifelong peace, happiness, and strength. Believe this heartily, and go to God with all your little cares, and hopes, and sins, and sorrows, as freely and confidingly as you come to your mother.'
Jo's only answer was to hold her mother close, and, in the silence which followed, the sincerest prayer she had ever prayed left her heart without words; for in that sad yet happy hour she had learned not only the bitterness of remorse and despair, but the sweetness of self-denial and self-control; and, led by her mother's hand, she had drawn nearer to the friend who welcomes every child with a love stronger than that of any father, tenderer than that of any mother.
Amy stirred, and sighed in her sleep; and, as if eager to begin at once to mend her fault, Jo looked up with an expression on her face which it had never worn before.
`I let the sun go down on my anger; I wouldn't forgive her, and today, if it hadn't been for Laurie, it might have been too late! How could I be so wicked?' said Jo, half aloud, as she leaned over her sister, softly stroking the wet hair scattered on the pillow.
As if she heard, Amy opened her eyes, and held out her arms, with a smile that went straight to Jo's heart. Neither said a word, but they hugged one another close, in spite of the blankets, and everything was forgiven and forgotten in one hearty kiss.
“姑娘们，你们上哪儿去？”这是一个星期六的下午，艾美走进房间，发现二位姐姐正准备悄悄溜出去，便好奇地问道。
“别管闲事。小姑娘不应该多嘴，”乔尖薄地回答。
如果有什么东西让我们年轻人伤心，那就是听到这种说话；如果我们听到"走开，亲爱的"，那就更加难受。艾美听到这句刺心话发起怒来，决意即使纠缠一个小时也要弄清楚这个秘密。她转向一贯迁就她的梅格撒娇道：“告诉我吧！我知道你们会让我一起去的，因为贝思光顾着弹钢琴，我无事可干，这么孤单。”“不行，亲爱的，因为没有邀请你，”梅格开口了。
但乔不耐烦地打断她：“嘿，梅格，别说了，不然你会把事情弄糟。你不能去，艾美，别像个三岁小孩，嘀嘀咕咕的。”“你们要和劳里一起出去，我知道是这样；你们昨晚在沙发上又说又笑，见我进来就不做声了。你们是不是跟他去？”“对，是跟他去；现在别做声了，不要缠着我们。”艾美住了嘴，但眼睛却在观察，她看到梅格把一把扇子塞进衣袋里。
“我知道了！我知道了！你们要上剧院看《七个城堡》！”她喊道，接着又坚决地说，”我要去，妈妈说这出戏我可以看；再说我也有钱。你们不早点告诉我，可真够卑鄙。”“乖乖听我说吧，”梅格安慰道，”妈妈不想你这个星期去，因为你眼睛还没有完全恢复，不能受这个童话剧的灯光刺激。
下星期你可以跟贝思和罕娜去，玩得痛痛快快。”“那怎么比得上跟你们和劳里一起去有意思。让我去吧。
我感冒病了这么久，老关在家里，想出去玩都想得发疯了。让我去吧，梅格！我一定乖乖听话，”艾美请求道，一副楚楚可怜的样子。
“假如我们带她去，只要帮她穿暖和点，我想妈妈也不会生气，”梅格说。
“如果她去我就不去；如果我不去，劳里就会不高兴；这样很不礼貌，他原只请了我们两人，我们却非要拉上艾美。她该识趣一点，不要涉足自己不受欢迎的地方，”乔生气地说。
她想痛痛快快看场戏，不愿费神看管一个坐立不宁的孩子。
她的声调和神态激怒了艾美，她开始穿上靴子，用最使人恼火的口吻说：“我就是要去，梅格都说我可以去；如果我自个儿付钱，这事就与劳里不相干。”“你不能和我们一起坐，因为我们的座位是预定的。而你又不能一个人坐，那么劳里就会把他的位子让给你，这就扫了大家的兴；要不他就会另外给你找个座位，这也不合适，因为人家原来并没有请你。你一步也别动，好生呆着吧，”乔责备着，匆忙中她把手指扎伤了，更加生气。
艾美穿着一只靴子坐在地上，放声大哭，梅格好言相劝，这时劳里在下面叫她们，两位姑娘赶忙下楼，留下妹妹在那里嚎啕大哭；这位妹妹有时会忘掉自己的大人风度，表现得像个宠坏了的孩子。就在这班人正要出发之际，艾美倚在楼梯扶手上用威胁的声调叫道：“你一定会后悔的，乔·马奇，走着瞧吧！”“废话！“乔回敬道，砰的一声关上门。
《钻石湖的七个城堡》精彩绝伦，那天他们度过了一段十分迷人的时光。不过，尽管红色小魔鬼滑稽趣怪，小精灵熠熠生辉，王子公主羡煞神仙，乔的快乐心情却总是夹杂着一丝歉意：看到美若天仙的王后一头黄色鬈发，她便想到艾美，幕间休息时便猜测艾美会采取什么行动来令她"后悔"。到底会采取什么行动呢？她和艾美在生活中发生过多次小冲突，两人都是急性子，惹急了都会发怒。艾美挑逗乔，乔激怒艾美，凡此种种，纠缠不清，极偶然便会爆发出雷霆风暴，事后两人都追悔不已。乔虽然年长，却最不善于控制自己。她的刚烈性格屡屡使她惹祸上身，她为了驾驭这匹脱缰野马吃了不少苦头，她的怒气总是消得很快，一待乖乖地认了错，她便诚心悔改，努力补偿。她的姐妹们常说她们到挺喜欢把乔逗得勃然大怒，因为狂风骤雨之后她便成了无比温顺的天使。可怜的乔拼尽全力要做个好孩子，但深藏心中的敌人总是随时跳出来，把她打倒。经过数年的耐心努力之后，这匹野马才被征服。
回到家时，她们看到艾美在客厅读书。她们进来的时候她装出一副受伤的神情，看着书眼也不抬，也不问一句话。若非贝思在那里问长问短，听两位姐姐热情洋溢地把话剧描绘一番，艾美也许就会顾不得怨恨，自己也去问个明白了。乔上楼去放她自己最好的帽子时，首先望望衣柜，因为上次吵架后艾美把乔的顶层抽屉底朝天倒翻地上，借以出气。幸好，一切都原封不动。匆匆扫一眼自己各式各样的衣橱、袋子、箱子等物后，乔自信艾美已原谅了自己，忘记了她的过错。
乔这回可想错了。第二天她发现少了一样东西，于是一场狂风骤雨倾然爆发。傍晚时分，梅格、贝思和艾美正坐在一处，乔冲入房间，神情激动，气喘吁吁地问道：“有人拿了我的书没有？”梅格和贝思马上答：“没有，”觉得十分惊讶。艾美捅捅火苗，一言不发。乔发现她马上脸色飞红，好一会才恢复常态。
“艾美，你拿了！”
“不，我没拿。”
“起码你知道书在哪里！”
“不，我不知道。”
“撒谎！”乔嚷道，两手抓住她的肩膀，神态凶猛，足以吓倒一个比艾美更大胆的孩子。
“这不是谎话。我没拿，我不知道它在什么地方，也不想知道。”“你一定心中有数，最好马上讲出来，否则就让你尝尝我的厉害。”乔轻轻摇了她一下。
“你爱骂就骂个够吧，你永远也不会看到你那本无聊的旧书了，”艾美叫道，也激动起来。
“为什么？”
“我把它烧掉了。”
“什么！我最最心爱的小书，我呕心沥血想赶在爸爸回家前写完的小书？你真的把它烧掉了吗？”乔问道，脸色变得灰白，双目炯炯，两手神经质地把艾美抓得紧紧。
“对，烧掉了！你昨天对我发脾气，我说过要让你后悔的，我这样做了，所以- "艾美不敢往下再说，因为乔早已怒发冲冠，她狠劲猛摇艾美，把她弄得牙齿在脑袋里头格格作响，一面悲愤交加地大叫道- “你这个狠心、歹毒的女孩！我再也写不出这样的书来，我这辈子都不会原谅你！”梅格飞身上前营救艾美，贝思则赶忙上来安抚乔，但乔仍然怒不可遏，她给妹妹一记耳光作为临别纪念，冲出房间，跑上阁楼，坐在那张旧沙发上，独个结束这场战斗。
楼下的风暴已开始停息。马奇太太回来听到这事后，三言两语便使艾美认识到自己做了伤害姐姐的错事。乔的书是她心中的骄傲，被一家人视为极有前途的文学萌芽。书里只写了六个神话小故事，但却是乔耐心耕耘所得。她把全身心投入工作，希望写好后能够出版。她刚刚小心翼翼地把故事抄好，并毁掉了草稿，因此艾美的一把火便把她数年的心血毁于一旦。这对于别人来说可能是个小损失，但对乔却是灭顶之灾，她觉得无论怎样补救都无济于事。贝思犹如死掉了一只小猫咪一样沉痛哀悼，梅格拒绝为自己的宠儿说话；马奇太太神情严峻，伤心万分，艾美后悔不迭，心想如果自己不向乔道歉，就再也没有人爱她了。
喝茶的铃声响起时，乔露脸了，冷冰冰地板着脸，不瞅不睬，艾美鼓足勇气，细声细气地说道- “原谅我吧，乔，我非常、非常抱歉。”“我绝不会原谅你！”乔硬邦邦地抛出一句。从那一刻起她完全不再理会艾美。
大家对这件不幸的事情绝口不提--连马奇太太也不例外--因为大家得出一条经验，但凡乔情绪如此低落，说什么都没有用，最明智的办法是等一些偶然的小事或她本身宽容的天性来化解怨恨，治愈创伤。这天晚上虽然她们如常一样做针线活，母亲照样朗读布雷默、司各特、埃奇沃思的文章，但气氛总是不对劲儿，大家毫无心情，原来甜蜜、温馨的家庭生活泛起了波澜。到了唱歌时间，大家的感觉更加难受，贝思只是默默抚琴，乔呆立一旁，活像个石头人，艾美失声痛哭，只剩下梅格和母亲孤军作战。但是，虽然她们力图唱得像云雀一样轻快，银铃般的嗓音已失去往日的和谐，全都走音走调。
当乔接受晚安吻别时，马奇太太柔声低语道：“亲爱的，别让愤怒的乌云遮住了太阳；互相原谅，互相帮助，明天再重新开始。”乔想把头伏在母亲怀里，哭去一切悲伤和愤怒；但男儿有泪不轻弹，而且，她觉得受到的伤害是如此之深，一时实在不能原谅。因此她拼命眨巴着眼睛，摇摇头，因为知道艾美在一旁听着，于是硬绷绷地说：“这种事情卑鄙之极，她罪不可耍"言毕她大步走回寝室。那个晚上姐妹们没有说笑，也没有讲悄悄话。
艾美因自己主动求和而遭严厉拒绝，不禁恼羞成怒，她后悔自己太低声下气，觉得自己受到了前所未有的伤害，于是更故意摆出一副高姿态，令人十分恼火。乔的脸上依然阴云密布，这一天事情全出了岔儿。早晨寒风飕飕；乔把卷饼掉落沟里，马奇婶婶大发脾气，梅格郁郁寡欢，贝思在家里总是一副伤感而心事重重的样子，艾美则大发宏论，批评某些人口里常说要做好孩子，现在人家已为他们树立了榜样了，却又不愿去做。
“这些人个个如此可恨，我要叫劳里溜冰去。他心地善良，幽默风趣，一定会使我恢复情绪的，”乔心里说着，便走了出去。
艾美听到溜冰鞋发出的响声，向外一望，急得大叫起来。
“瞧！她答应过下次带我去，因为这是最后一个冰期了，但叫这么个火爆性子带上我，也等于白说。”“别这样说。你也确实太淘气了。你烧掉了她的宝贝书稿，要她原谅可不那么容易；不过我想现在她或许会这样做的，只要你在适当的时候试探她，我想她会心软的，”梅格说，”跟着他们；什么也别说，单等乔跟劳里玩得情绪好转了，你才静静上前去给她一吻，或是做些什么讨人喜欢的事情。我敢说她会全心全意再做朋友的。”“我一定努力，”艾美说，觉得这个忠告正中下怀。她一阵风似地收拾一番，向他们追出去，两位朋友正渐行渐远，身影逐渐消失在山的那面。
这里离河不远，两人在艾美来到前已做好准备。乔看到她走来，转过身去。劳里却没有看见，他正小心翼翼地沿岸滑行，探测冰块的声音，因为刚才冰川雪地之间袭来一股暖流。
“我去第一个弯口看看情况，没有问题我们再开始竞赛。”艾美听他说完，就见他如离弦之箭飞驰而去，一身毛边大衣和暖帽衬得他活脱脱像个俄罗斯小伙子。
乔听到艾美跑得生气喘吁吁，一面跺脚，一面吹着手指，试图把溜冰鞋穿上去，但乔就是不回头，而是沿河慢慢作之字形行走，心里对妹妹遇到的麻烦感到一种苦涩和不安的快意。
她一腔怒火早窝在胸中，渐积渐深，已使她失去了理智，这好比邪恶的想法和感情一样，如不立即发泄，必成祸患。劳里在弯口转弯时，回头大声喊道- “靠岸边走，中间不安全。”乔听到了，但艾美正使着劲儿穿鞋，一个字也没有听到。
乔转头望了一眼，藏在心里的小魔鬼在她耳边使劲唤道- “不论她有没有听到，让她自己照顾自己吧！”劳里绕过弯口消失了身影，乔来到弯口边，远远跟在后面的艾美正迈步向河中间较为平滑的冰面走去。乔呆立了一会，她心中升起一种奇怪的感觉；接着她决定继续向前走，但一种莫名的感觉使她停下脚步，转过身来，正好看见艾美举起双手，身子往下跌，破裂的冰块突然嘎嚓一响，水花四溅，同时传来一声尖叫，吓得乔心脏都几乎停止了跳动。她想叫劳里，声音却不听使唤；她想冲上前去，但双脚却疲软无力；有一小会儿功夫，她只能一动不动地呆立着，死死盯着黑色冰面上那顶小蓝帽，惊恐得脸上变了颜色。这时，一个身影从她身边疾驰而过，只听劳里大声喊道- “拿根横杆来。快，快！”她不知道自己是怎样做的，但接下来的几分钟她犹如着了魔一样，盲目听从劳里吩咐。劳里相当镇静，他平卧下去，用手臂和曲棍球棒拉起艾美，乔从栅栏拔出一根栏杆，两人齐心合力，把艾美弄了出来。艾美伤势不重，只是这一惊非同小可。
“来吧，我们得赶快把她送回家；把我们的衣服披在她身上，待我把讨厌的溜冰鞋脱掉，”劳里边叫边使劲扯开衣带，用自己的大衣裹住艾美。
两人打着冷颤送艾美回家，水珠儿泪珠儿一起往下滴。一阵手忙脚乱之后，艾美裹着毛毯在暖和的炉火前睡着了。乔由始至终几乎一言不发，只是团团乱转，脸色苍白，衣饰凌乱不堪，裙子撕破了，双手被冰块、栅栏和坚硬的衣扣刮得肿起了青块。当艾美舒舒服服地睡着了，屋里也安静下来之后，马奇太太坐在床边，把乔叫过来，给她包扎弄伤了的双手。
“您肯定她没有事吗？”乔悄声问道，悔恨交加地望着那个险些在惊险的冰层下永远从她视线中消失的金发脑袋。
“没有事，亲爱的。她没有受伤，我想也不会患上感冒，你用衣服包着她，把她立即送回家，十分明智哩，”母亲舒心地答道。
“这些都是劳里做的。我当时只是生死由她。妈妈，如果她会死，那就是我的错。”乔痛悔不已，涕泪交流，重重坐在床边，把事情经过讲述一遍，痛责自己当时心肠太狠，呜呜咽咽地说自己差一点受到严厉的惩罚，幸亏事情化险为夷，着实谢天谢地。
“都怪我的坏性子！我想努力把它改好；我以为已经改好了，谁知发作起来，越发不可收拾。噢，妈妈，我该怎么办？
我该怎么办？”可怜的乔绝望地叫道。
“提防和祈祷吧，亲爱的，千万不要气馁，千万不要以为你的缺点不可征服，“马奇太太说着，把乔头发蓬乱的脑袋靠在自己肩上，无限温柔地吻吻她湿漉漉的脸颊，乔哭得越发伤心。
“您不知道，您想象不出我性子有多坏！我发火时似乎可以无所不为；我变得毫无人性，可以做出伤害别人的事，而且还乐在其中。我担心有一天我会做出可怕的事情，毁掉自己的一生，使天下人都憎恨我。噢，妈妈，帮帮我吧，千万帮帮我！”“我会的，孩子，我会的。别哭得这么伤心，但要记住这一天，并且要痛下决心不再让这种事情重演。乔，亲爱的，我们都会遇到诱惑，有些甚至比这种大得多，我们常常要用一生时间来征服它们。你以为自己的脾气是天下最坏的了，但我的脾气以前就跟你的一模一样。”“您有脾气，妈妈？您从来都不生气啊！”乔惊讶得暂时忘掉了悔恨。
“我努力改了四十年，现在才刚刚控制祝我过去几乎每天都生气，乔，但我学会了不把它表露出来；我还希望学会不把它感觉出来，虽然可能又得花上四十年的功夫。”她深爱的母亲的脸孔流露出一种忍耐和谦卑，乔觉得这比最振振有词的训导和最严厉的斥责都更有说服力。母亲的安慰和信任使她心里好受多了；知道自己的母亲也有照自己一样的缺点，并且努力改正，她觉得自己更要下决心改正过来，虽然四十年对于一个十五岁的少女来说似乎相当漫长。
“妈妈，当马奇婶婶责骂您或有人烦
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