With love from your brimful of happiness sister,

Jo.

11

Concord, october 1872.

Dearest Bethie,

This is the last time I shall write to you from this home where we all once shared so much laughter and so many dreams, where I grew from a wild girl to a happy woman, where Meg was courted by John, and Amy made her mud pies and fretted about her nose, and you were our angel and still are. Dear, tonight my Professor returned from the West, and tomorrow, all in a day, I am to marry him, and move to Plumfield to start the school!

Here’s how it all came about. Do you remember Aunt Carrol’s friend Miss Crabbe, who lives out across the river? Well, she don’t talk about it, but she had a younger sister who went astray, poor soul, and had gone to New York to hide herself in the big city. And last week word arrived at Miss Crabbe’s that the sister had died of a fever—poor forlorn creature, I hope that someone kind was with her at the last—and left behind her a little fatherless boy that no one knew what to do with. A kind lady in the building had cared for him for some time, but she had been sent for by her brother in St. Louis who had no room for the lad, and finding Miss Crabbe’s address among her sister’s few papers, had written to throw herself on her generosity for assistance.

Miss Crabbe is a good soul as you know, but she’s old and feeble and unable to take care of anyone, let alone a boy of twelve, and at first it seemed there was no help for it but to send him to the poor-house. It was Aunt Carrol, bless her, who had the happy thought of starting Plumfield, even though the repairs on the house ain’t but half finished, the barn needs a new roof, and until last Sunday, when his work with the college came to an end, the school’s Professor was still teaching out in the West. But you know how I like adventures, Beth. We have beds and rugs enough for three, and a fine new stove in that great kitchen where stern old Hepzibah used to frighten you so—Fritz and Jimmy and I can make ourselves a capital nest in the part of the house that’s already finished, and as for the repairs still happening in the rest of it, I can’t think of a happier or more wholesome amusement for a boy, when he is not at his books, than to watch skilled carpenters and plasterers at their work, and maybe take up an idea for an honest trade for when he is grown himself.

Our wedding is to be tomorrow, for of course we can’t delay. Fritz arrived home last night (and, oh, it was joy to see him), he goes into town in the morning for the marriage license, and then Father will join us, quite plainly, in the parlor, and our life together will begin. Amy’s in her despair, for she had been planning a grand ceremony with musicians and a splendid breakfast and I know not what else besides; but to tell you the truth I’ve been keeping from her to spare her feelings, I like it better this way. Grand shows ain’t my style or Fritz’s either: we’re plain folk and a simple wedding will suit us best.