‘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 Witch’s Curse, an Operatic Tragedy,” is rather a nice thing; but I’d like to try Macbeth, 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 ma’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 stout, motherly lady, with a ‘can-I-help-you’ look about her which was truly delightful. She wasn’t a particularly handsome person, but mothers are always lovely to their children, and the girls thought the gray cloak and unfashionable bonnet covered the most splendid woman 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 any one 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 hot 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, overturning, and clattering everything she touched; Beth trotted to and fro between parlor and kitchen, quiet and busy; while Amy gave directions to every one, 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 hot 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 up, and get done. Don’t stop to quirk your little finger, and prink over your plate, Amy,’ cried Jo, choking in her tea, and dropping her bread, butter side down, on the carpet, in her haste to get at the treat.