Fritz and the boys are already in thrall for when she’s not roaring she’s a merry soul and keeps us all entertained most mightily. Meg broods over her like a lace-capped mother hen, ignoring the squawks but greeting each crow and coo as if they were the songs of Herr Wagner and the oratory of President Lincoln himself. Daisy and Josie pay obeisance at her throne, and, all in all, she looks set to be petted and spoilt almost as much as a certain little yellow-haired girl I once knew back in Concord. But upon consideration, if she grows into one tenth of the woman that same little girl grew into at last, then I shan’t have cause for complaint—about that or about anything else. If only Marmee and my Beth were still here with us, I believe I shouldn’t have a wish left in the world.

I must say, dear, that it is perfectly capital to have a daughter! Of course I love my tall boys and am proud as Punch of them, but it had always been a secret little disappointment to me not to have had a girl, too, as you have your Bess, and as Meg—happy woman!—has Josie and Daisy. And now, just when I had thought that part of my life was done, comes the most precious little gift that I had ever dared to dream of. I shall raise my girl to be good, and industrious, and useful to the community, and also to run and play and be jolly, and to build up a strong body as well as a lively mind. I shall teach her to have all the good and womanly impulses, but I shall teach her, too, that girls are as valuable as boys, and every bit as clever, given the education. I long to see the times she will grow up into—for times are changing for girls, blessedly. Perhaps when she is old enough she shall even be allowed to vote in the Elections, as the women in England are hoping to—and when that joyous day arrives shan’t I just toss my old woman’s bonnet into the air, ruffles and ribbons and all, just see if I don’t, and scandalize the town, the way I used to when I was a girl!

Dear Amy, I want to say a word to you about how we shall name her. I know you’ve been concerned that if the baby were a girl I should want to name her for Beth, and to tell you the truth, if we hadn’t your Bess already in the family, I should want that, for you know that Beth is in my heart always. But your Princess Goldilocks is the bearer of the name now, and such a dear and precious name as it is, it must have the one proprietor only. So my girl shall be plain Josephine like her mother—it pleases Fritz, Josie says she don’t mind, and we’ll call her Cissie, so there shan’t be two names too much the same—and, dear, you don’t mind very much, do you, if I give her Elizabeth as a second name? I should like to feel that Beth is watching over her, too, from heaven, as she watches over us all and always will.