“There’s tea here if you want it,” said Fee.

When Lulu reached the attic, she knew exactly which letter she was looking for. It was towards the top of the pile, longer than some of the others, and adorned even more heavily than most with crossings-out, inkblots, and, towards the end, what looked suspiciously like tearstains. She drew it out, took it to the armchair, and read.

Concord, september 1866.

Dearest Marmee,

Thank you for your letter, and what a comfort it is to know that Beth seems to improve there in the fresh air of the seashore. I delight to hear how she enjoys the sea breezes, and if she ain’t much fatter yet, then surely she must soon be. We shall make her well between us and have our rosy-cheeked Bethie back again—I am determined on it.

Oh, Marmee, I’ve done a dreadful thing! Now, don’t be alarmed, Marmee, it’s not such a very bad scrape I’ve got into—indeed, Laurie seems to find it comical, which makes me want to shake him—but I’m covered in mortification and must ’fess all to you or I’ll explode.

It concerns the dance at the Tudors’ last night. You recall that Laurie was so looking forward to it as a diversion from digging so hard at his books all summer long, and that he was to escort Amy, who was to look lovely as an angel in her white silk with the blue ribbons, and make herself entrancingly agreeable to every single person there in order to delight the young men and heap coals of fire on the head of the wicked Miss Randal who scorned our boy so. Well, we’ve been preparing all week, and such activity we’ve had flying about making everything ready. The silk has been tried on, pronounced a perfect fit, and a small tear in a ruffle observed and skillfully repaired by Mantua-Maker-in-Chief Jo; the new sapphire bracelet (as we will insist on calling it although we know it’s only colored glass, but it looks so jewel-like we all agree it might as well be “waluable”) considered on this arm and on that, and high upon the arm and low upon the wrist, until at last I suggested it be affixed to a pole and carried aloft in triumph for all to see and admire, which notion Milady did not find entertaining but which caused Hannah to clap her handkerchief to her nose and suddenly recall that she must attend to the potatoes in the kitchen. The scuff in the boots has been disguised by the very last remnants of the blue paint; coiffures have been paraded, discussed with Meg (not with me—hopeless on such matters, as you know), disassembled and reassembled into what looks to me exactly the same fashion but the others promise me is a different arrangement altogether; a small garden of flowers tried and discarded before the perfect nosegay was agreed upon. At last, late on the night before last, all was pronounced to satisfaction and Amy retired to her bed a happy and a hopeful woman.