‘Let us do it,’ said Meg, thoughtfully. ‘It is only another name for trying to be good, and the story may help us; for though we do want to be good, it’s hard work, and we forget, and don’t do our best.’

‘We were in the Slough of Despond tonight, and mother came and pulled us out as Help did in the book. We ought to have our roll of directions, like Christian. What shall we do about that?’ asked Jo, delighted with the fancy which lent a little romance to the very dull task of doing her duty.

‘Look under your pillows, Christmas morning, and you will find your guide-book,’ replied Mrs March.

They talked over the new plan while old Hannah cleared the table; then out came the four little workbaskets, and the needles flew as the girls made sheets for Aunt March. It was uninteresting sewing, but tonight no one grumbled. They adopted Jo’s plan of dividing the long seams into four parts, and calling the quarters Europe, Asia, Africa and America, and in that way got on capitally, especially when they talked about the different countries as they stitched their way through them.

At nine they stopped work, and sang, as usual, before they went to bed. No one but Beth could get much music out of the old piano; but she had a way of softly touching the yellow keys, and making a pleasant accompaniment to the simple songs they sung. Meg had a voice like a flute, and she and her mother led the little choir. Amy chirped like a cricket, and Jo wandered through the airs at her own sweet will, always coming out at the wrong place with a crook or a quaver that spoilt the most pensive tune. They had always done this from the time they could lisp

‘Crinkle, crinkle, ’ittle ’tar,’

and it had become a household custom, for the mother was a born singer. The first sound in the morning was her voice, as she went about the house singing like a lark; and the last sound at night was the same cheery sound, for the girls never grew too old for that familiar lullaby.

Jo Meets Apollyon

‘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 dolls, and I haven’t got anything to do, and am so lonely.’