Beth has grown slender, pale, and more quiet than ever; the beautiful, kind eyes, are larger, and in them lies an expression that saddens one, although it is not sad itself. It is the shadow of pain which touches the young face with such pathetic patience; but Beth seldom complains, and always speaks hopefully of ‘being better soon.’

Amy is with truth considered ‘the flower of the family’; for at sixteen she has the air and bearing of a full-grown woman—not beautiful, but possessed of that indescribable charm called grace. One saw it in the lines of her figure, the make and motion of her hands, the flow of her dress, the droop of her hair—unconscious, yet harmonious, and as attractive to many as beauty itself. Amy’s nose still afflicted her, for it never would grow Grecian; so did her mouth, being too wide, and having a decided under-lip. These offending features gave character to her whole face, but she never could see it, and consoled herself with her wonderfully fair complexion, keen blue eyes, and curls, more golden and abundant than ever.

All three wore suits of thin, silvery gray (their best gowns for the summer), with blush roses in hair and bosom; and all three looked just what they were—fresh-faced, happy-hearted girls, pausing a moment in their busy lives to read with wistful eyes the sweetest chapter in the romance of womanhood.

There were to be no ceremonious performances; everything was to be as natural and homelike as possible; so when Aunt March arrived, she was scandalized to see the bride come running to welcome and lead her in, to find the bridegroom fastening up a garland that had fallen down, and to catch a glimpse of the paternal minister marching upstairs with a grave countenance, and a wine bottle under each arm.

‘Upon my word, here’s a state of things!’ cried the old lady, taking the seat of honor prepared for her, and settling the folds of her lavender moiré with a great rustle. ‘You oughtn’t to be seen till the last minute, child.’

‘I’m not a show, aunty, and no one is coming to stare at me, to criticize my dress, or count the cost of my luncheon. I’m too happy to care what any one says or thinks, and I’m going to have my little wedding just as I like it. John, dear, here’s your hammer,’ and away went Meg to help ‘that man’ in his highly improper employment.

Mr Brooke didn’t even say ‘Thank you,’ but as he stooped for the unromantic tool, he kissed his little bride behind the folding-door, with a look that made Aunt March whisk out her pocket-handkerchief, with a sudden dew in her sharp old eyes.

A crash, a cry, and a laugh from Laurie, accompanied by the indecorous exclamation, ‘Jupiter Ammon! Jo’s upset the cake again!’ caused a momentary flurry, which was hardly over, when a flock of cousins arrived, and ‘the party came in,’ as Beth used to say when a child.