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a languid air, which amused Laurie immensely.

      He did not speak to her again till suppertime, when he saw her drinking champagne with Ned and his friend Fisher, who were behaving “like a pair of fools,” as Laurie said to himself, for he felt a brotherly sort of right to watch over the Marches, and fight their battles whenever a defender was needed.

      “You'll have a splitting headache tomorrow, if you drink much of that. I wouldn't, Meg; your mother doesn't like it, you know,” he whispered, leaning over her chair, as Ned turned to refill her glass and Fisher stooped to pick up her fan.

      “I'm not Meg tonight; I'm 'a doll,' who does all sorts of crazy things. Tomorrow I shall put away my 'fuss and feathers,' and be desperately good again,” she answered, with an affected little laugh.

      “Wish tomorrow was here, then,” muttered Laurie, walking off, ill-pleased at the change he saw in her.

      Meg danced and flirted, chattered and giggled, as the other girls did; after supper she undertook the German, and blundered through it, nearly upsetting her partner with her long skirt, and romping in a way that scandalized Laurie, who looked on and meditated a lecture. But he got no chance to deliver it, for Meg kept away from him till he came to say good night.

      “Remember!” she said, trying to smile, for the splitting headache had already begun.

      “Silence à la mort,” replied Laurie, with a melodramatic flourish, as he went away.

      This little bit of byplay excited Annie's curiosity; but Meg was too tired for gossip, and went to bed, feeling as if she had been to a masquerade, and hadn't enjoyed herself as much as she expected. She was sick all the next day, and on Saturday went home, quite used up with her fortnight's fun and feeling that she had “sat in the lap of luxury” long enough.

      “It does seem pleasant to be quiet, and not have company manners on all the time. Home is a nice place, though it isn't splendid,” said Meg, looking about her with a restful expression, as she sat with her mother and Jo on the Sunday evening.

      “I'm glad to hear you say so, dear, for I was afraid home would seem dull and poor to you after your fine quarters,” replied her mother, who had given her many anxious looks that day; for motherly eyes are quick to see any change in children's faces.

      Meg had told her adventures gayly and, said over and over what a charming time she had had; but something still seemed to weigh upon her spirits, and, when the younger girls were gone to bed, she sat thoughtfully staring at the fire, saying little, and looking worried. As the clock struck nine, and Jo proposed bed, Meg suddenly left her chair, and, taking Beth's stool, leaned her elbows on her mother's knee, saying bravely, -

      “Marmee, I want to 'fess.'”

      “I thought so; what is it, dear?”

      “Shall I go away?” asked Jo discreetly.

      “Of course not; don't I always tell you everything? I was ashamed to speak of it before the children, but I want you to know all the dreadful things I did at the Moffats'.”

      “We are prepared,” said Mrs. March, smiling, but looking a little anxious.

      “I told you they dressed me up, but I didn't tell you that they powdered and squeezed and frizzled, and made me look like a fashion-plate. Laurie thought I wasn't proper; I know he did, though he didn't say so, and one man called me 'a doll.' I knew it was silly, but they flattered me, and said I was a beauty, and quantities of nonsense, so I let them make a fool of me.”

      “Is that all?” asked Jo, as Mrs. March looked silently at the downcast face of her pretty daughter, and could not find it in her heart to blame her little follies.

      “No; I drank champagne and romped and tried to flirt, and was altogether abominable,” said Meg self-reproachfully.

      “There is something more, I think.” And Mrs. March smoothed the soft cheek, which suddenly grew rosy, as Meg answered slowly, -

      “Yes; It's very silly, but I want to tell it, because I hate to have people say and think such things about us and Laurie.”

      Then she told the various bits of gossip she had heard at the Moffats'; and, as she spoke, Jo saw her mother fold her lips tightly, as if ill pleased that such ideas should be put into Meg's innocent mind.

      “Well, if that isn't the greatest rubbish I ever heard,” cried Jo indignantly. “Why didn't you pop out and tell them so, on the spot?”

      “I couldn't, it was so embarrassing for me. I couldn't help hearing, at first, and then I was so angry and ashamed, I didn't remember that I ought to go away.”

      “Just wait till I see Annie Moffat, and I'll show you how to settle such ridiculous stuff. The idea of having 'plans,' and being kind to Laurie, because he's rich, and may marry us by and by! Won't he shout, when I tell him what those silly things say about us poor children?” And Jo laughed, as if on second thoughts, the thing struck her as a good joke.

      “If you tell Laurie, I'll never forgive you! She mustn't, must she, mother?” said Meg, looking distressed.

      “No; never repeat that foolish gossip, and forget it as soon as you can,” said Mrs. March gravely. “I was very unwise to let you go among people of whom I know so little, – kind, I dare say, but worldly, ill-bred, and full of these vulgar ideas about young people. I am more sorry than I can express for the mischief this visit may have done you, Meg.”

      “Don't be sorry, I won't let it hurt me; I'll forget all the bad, and remember only the good; for I did enjoy a great deal, and thank you very much for letting me go. I'll not be sentimental or dissatisfied, mother; I know I'm a silly little girl, and I'll stay with you till I'm fit to take care of myself. But it is nice to be praised and admired, and I can't help saying I like it,” said Meg, looking half ashamed of the confession.

      “That is perfectly natural, and quite harmless, if the liking does not become a passion, and lead one to do foolish or unmaidenly things. Learn to know and value the praise which is worth having, and to excite the admiration of excellent people by being modest as well as pretty, Meg.”

      Margaret sat thinking a moment, while Jo stood with her hands behind her, looking both interested and a little perplexed; for it was a new thing to see Meg blushing and talking about admiration, lovers, and things of that sort; and Jo felt as if, during that fortnight, her sister had grown up amazingly, and was drifting away from her into a world where she could not follow.

      “Mother, do you have 'plans,' as Mrs. Moffat said?” asked Meg bashfully.

      “Yes, my dear, I have a great many; all mothers do, but mine differ somewhat from Mrs. Moffat's, I suspect. I will tell you some of them, for the time has come when a word may set this romantic little head and heart of yours right, on a very serious subject. You are young, Meg, but not too young to understand me; and mothers' lips are the fittest to speak of such things to girls like you. Jo, your turn will come in time, perhaps, so listen to my 'plans,' and help me carry them out, if they are good.”

      Jo went and sat on one arm of the chair, looking as if she thought they were about to join in some very solemn affair. Holding a hand of each, and watching the two young faces wistfully, Mrs. March said, in her serious yet cheery way, -

      “I want my daughters to be beautiful, accomplished, and good; to be admired, loved, and respected; to have a happy youth, to be well and wisely married, and to lead useful, pleasant lives, with as little care and sorrow to try them as God sees fit to send. To be loved and chosen by a good man is the best and sweetest thing which can happen to a woman; and I sincerely hope my girls may know this beautiful experience. It is natural to think of it, Meg; right to hope and wait for it, and wise to prepare for it; so that, when the happy time comes, you may feel ready for the duties and worthy of the joy. My dear girls, I am ambitious for you, but not to have you make a dash in the world, – marry rich men merely because they are rich, or have splendid houses, which are not homes because love is wanting. Money is a needful and precious thing, – and, when well used, a noble thing, – but I never want you to think it is the first or only prize to strive for. I'd rather see you poor men's wives, if you were happy, beloved,

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