Amy's lecture did Laurie good, though, of course, he didnot own it till long afterward. Men seldom do, for when womenare the advisers, the lords of creation don't take the advicetill they have persuaded themselves that it is just what theyintended to do. Then they act upon it, and, if it succeeds,they give the weaker vessel half the credit of it. If itfails, they generously give her the whole. Laurie went backto his grandfather, and was so dutifully devoted for severalweeks that the old gentleman declared the climate of Nice hadimproved him wonderfully, and he had better try it again.There was nothing the young gentleman would have liked better,but elephants could not have dragged him back after the scoldinghe had received. Pride forbid, and whenever the longinggrew very strong, he fortified his resolution by repeatingthe words that had made the deepest impression - "I despise you.""Go and do something splendid that will make her love you."

Laurie turned the matter over in his mind so often that he soonbrought himself to confess that he had been selfish and lazy,but then when a man has a great sorrow, he should be indulgedin all sorts of vagaries till he has lived it down. He feltthat his blighted affections were quite dead now, and thoughhe should never cease to be a faithful mourner, there wasno occasion to wear his weeds ostentatiously. Jo wouldn'tlove him, but he might make her respect and admire him by doingsomething which should prove that a girl's 'No' had not spoiledhis life. He had always meant to do something, and Amy'sadvice was quite unnecessary. He had only been waiting tillthe aforesaid blighted affections were decently interred.That being done, he felt that he was ready to 'hide hisstricken heart, and still toil on'.

As Goethe, when he had a joy or a grief, put it into a song,so Laurie resolved to embalm his love sorrow in music, and tocompose a Requiem which should harrow up Jo's soul and melt theheart of every hearer. Therefore the next time the old gentlemanfound him getting restless and moody and ordered him off,he went to Vienna, where he had musical friends, and fell towork with the firm determination to distinguish himself. Butwhether the sorrow was too vast to be embodied in music, ormusic too ethereal to uplift a mortal woe, he soon discoveredthat the Requiem was beyond him just at present. It was evidentthat his mind was not in working order yet, and his ideasneeded clarifying, for often in the middle of a plaintive strain,he would find himself humming a dancing tune that vividly recalledthe Christmas ball at Nice, especially the stout Frenchman,and put an effectual stop to tragic composition for the time being.

Then he tried an opera, for nothing seemed impossible inthe beginning, but here again unforeseen difficulties besethim. He wanted Jo for his heroine, and called upon his memoryto supply him with tender recollections and romantic visionsof his love. But memory turned traitor, and as if possessedby the perverse spirit of the girl, would only recall Jo'soddities, faults, and freaks, would only show her in the mostunsentimental aspects - beating mats with her head tied up ina bandanna, barricading herself with the sofa pillow, or throwingcold water over his passion a la Gummidge - and an irresistablelaugh spoiled the pensive picture he was endeavoring topaint. Jo wouldn't be put into the opera at any price, and hehad to give her up with a "Bless that girl, what a torment she is!"and a clutch at his hair, as became a distracted composer.

When he looked about him for another and a less intractabledamsel to immortalize in melody, memory produced one with themost obliging readiness. This phantom wore many faces, but italways had golden hair, was enveloped in a diaphanous cloud, andfloated airily before his mind's eye in a pleasing chaos of roses,peacocks, white ponies, and blue ribbons. He did not give thecomplacent wraith any name, but he took her for his heroine andgrew quite fond of her, as well he might, for he gifted her withevery gift and grace under the sun, and escorted her, unscathed,through trials which would have annihilated any mortal woman.

Thanks to this inspiration, he got on swimmingly for a time,but gradually the work lost its charm, and he forgot to compose,while he sat musing, pen in hand, or roamed about the gay cityto get some new ideas and refresh his mind, which seemed to bein a somewhat unsettled state that winter. He did not do much,but he thought a great deal and was conscious of a change ofsome sort going on in spite of himself. "It's genius simmering,perhaps. I'll let it simmer, and see what comes of it," he said,with a secret suspicion all the while that it wasn't genius, butsomething far more common. Whatever it was, it simmered tosome purpose, for he grew more and more discontented with hisdesultory life, began to long for some real and earnest workto go at, soul and body, and finally came to the wise conclusionthat everyone who loved music was not a composer. Returningfrom one of Mozart's grand operas, splendidly performed atthe Royal Theatre, he looked over his own, played a few of thebest parts, sat staring at the busts of Mendelssohn, Beethoven,and Bach, who stared benignly back again. Then suddenly hetore up his music sheets, one by one, and as the last flutteredout of his hand, he said soberly to himself . . .

"She is right! Talent isn't genius, and you can't make itso. That music has taken the vanity out of me as Rome took itout of her, and I won't be a humbug any longer. Now what shallI do?"

That seemed a hard question to answer, and Laurie began towish he had to work for his daily bread. Now if ever, occurredan eligible opportunity for 'going to the devil', as he onceforcibly expressed it, for he had plenty of money and nothingto do, and Satan is proverbially fond of providing employmentfor full and idle hands. The poor fellow had temptationsenough from without and from within, but he withstood thempretty well, for much as he valued liberty, he valued goodfaith and confidence more, so his promise to his grandfather,and his desire to be able to look honestly into the eyes ofthe women who loved him, and say "All's well," kept him safeand steady.

Very likely some Mrs. Grundy will observe, "I don't believe it,boys will be boys, young men must sow their wild oats,and women must not expect miracles." I dare say you don't,Mrs. Grundy, but it's true nevertheless. Women worka good many miracles, and I have a persuasion that they mayperform even that of raising the standard of manhood byrefusing to echo such sayings. Let the boys be boys, thelonger the better, and let the young men sow their wild oatsif they must. But mothers, sisters, and friends may help tomake the crop a small one, and keep many tares from spoilingthe harvest, by believing, and showing that they believe, inthe possibility of loyalty to the virtues which make men manliestin good women's eyes. If it is a feminine delusion, leave usto enjoy it while we may, for without it half the beauty andthe romance of life is lost, and sorrowful forebodings wouldembitter all our hopes of the brave, tenderhearted little lads,who still love their mothers better than themselves and arenot ashamed to own it.

Laurie thought that the task of forgetting his love for Jowould absorb all his powers for years, but to his great surprisehe discovered it grew easier every day. He refused to believeit at first, got angry with himself, and couldn't understand it,but these hearts of ours are curious and contrary things, andtime and nature work their will in spite of us. Laurie's heartwouldn't ache. The wound persisted in healing with a rapiditythat astonished him, and instead of trying to forget, he foundhimself trying to remember. He had not foreseen this turn ofaffairs, and was not prepared for it. He was disgusted withhimself, surprised at his own fickleness, and full of aqueer mixture of disappointment and relief that he couldrecover from such a tremendous blow so soon. He carefullystirred up the embers of his lost love, but they refused toburst into a blaze. There was only a comfortable glow thatwarmed and did him good without putting him into a fever,and he was reluctantly obliged to confess that the boyishpassion was slowly subsiding into a more tranquil sentiment,very tender, a little sad and resentful still, but that wassure to pass away in time, leaving a brotherly affectionwhich would last unbroken to the end.

As the word 'brotherly' passed through his mind in oneof his reveries, he smiled, and glanced up at the picture ofMozart that was before him . . .

"Well, he was a great man, and when he couldn't haveone sister he took the other, and was happy."

Laurie did not utter the words, but he thought them, andthe next instant kissed the little old ring, saying to himself,"No, I won't! I haven't forgotten, I never can. I'll try again,and if that fails, why then . . ."

Leaving his sentence unfinished, he seized pen and paperand wrote to Jo, telling her that he could not settle to anythingwhile there was the least hope of her changing her mind.Couldn't she, wouldn't she - and let him come home and be happy?While waiting for an answer he did nothing, but he did itenergetically, for he was in a fever of impatience. It cameat last, and settled his mind effectually on one point, for Jodecidedly couldn't and wouldn't. She was wrapped up in Beth,and never wished to hear the word love again. Then she beggedhim to be happy with somebody else, but always keep a littlecorner of his heart for his loving sister Jo. In a postscriptshe desired him not to tell Amy that Beth was worse, she wascoming home in the spring and there was no need of saddeningthe remainder of her stay. That would be time enough, pleaseGod, but Laurie must write to her often, and not let her feellonely, homesick or anxious.

"So I will, at once. Poor little girl, it will be a sadgoing home for her, I'm afraid," and Laurie opened his desk,as if writing to Amy had been the proper conclusion of thesentence left unfinished some weeks before.

But he did not write the letter that day, for as he rummagedout his best paper, he came across something whichchanged his purpose. Tumbling about in one part of the deskamong bills, passports, and business documents of various kindswere several of Jo's letters, and in another compartment werethree notes from Amy, carefully tied up with one of her blueribbons and sweetly suggestive of the little dead roses putaway inside. With a half-repentant, half-amused expression,Laurie gathered up all Jo's letters, smoothed, folded, and putthem neatly into a small drawer of the desk, stood a minuteturning the ring thoughtfully on his finger, then slowly drewit off, laid it with the letters, locked the drawer, and wentout to hear High Mass at Saint Stefan's, feeling as if therehad been a funeral, and though not overwhelmed with affliction,this seemed a more proper way to spend the rest of the day thanin writing letters to charming young ladies.

The letter went very soon, however, and was promptly answered,for Amy was homesick, and confessed it in the mostdelightfully confiding manner. The correspondence flourishedfamously, and letters flew to and fro with unfailing regularityall through the early spring. Laurie sold his busts, madeallumettes of his opera, and went back to Paris, hoping somebodywould arrive before long. He wanted desperately to goto Nice, but would not till he was asked, and Amy would notask him, for just then she was having little experiences ofher own, which made her rather wish to avoid the quizzicaleyes of 'our boy'.

Fred Vaughn had returned, and put the question to whichshe had once decided to answer, "Yes, thank you," but now shesaid, "No, thank you," kindly but steadily, for when the timecame, her courage failed her, and she found that somethingmore than money and position was needed to satisfy the newlonging that filled her heart so full of tender hopes andfears. The words, "Fred is a good fellow, but not at allthe man I fancied you would ever like," and Laurie's facewhen he uttered them, kept returning to her as pertinaciouslyas her own did when she said in look, if not in words, "Ishall marry for money." It troubled her to remember thatnow, she wished she could take it back, it sounded so unwomanly.She didn't want Laurie to think her a heartless, worldlycreature. She didn't care to be a queen of society nowhalf so much as she did to be a lovable woman. She wasso glad he didn't hate her for the dreadful things she said,but took them so beautifully and was kinder than ever. Hisletters were such a comfort, for the home letters were veryirregular and not half so satisfactory as his when they didcome. It was not only a pleasure, but a duty to answer them,for the poor fellow was forlorn, and needed petting, since Jopersisted in being stonyhearted. She ought to have made aneffort and tried to love him. It couldn't be very hard,many people would be proud and glad to have such a dear boycare for them. But Jo never would act like other girls, sothere was nothing to do but be very kind and treat him likea brother.

If all brothers were treated as well as Laurie was atthis period, they would be a much happier race of beings thanthey are. Amy never lectured now. She asked his opinion onall subjects, she was interested in everything he did, madecharming little presents for him, and sent him two lettersa week, full of lively gossip, sisterly confidences, andcaptivating sketches of the lovely scenes about her. As fewbrothers are complimented by having their letters carriedabout in their sister's pockets, read and reread diligently,cried over when short, kissed when long, and treasured carefully,we will not hint that Amy did any of these fond andfoolish things. But she certainly did grow a little paleand pensive that spring, lost much of her relish for society,and went out sketching alone a good deal. She never had muchto show when she came home, but was studying nature, I daresay, while she sat for hours, with her hands folded, on theterrace at Valrosa, or absently sketched any fancy thatoccurred to her, a stalwart knight carved on a tomb, a youngman asleep in the grass, with his hat over his eyes, or a curlyhaired girl in gorgeous array, promenading down a ballroom onthe arm of a tall gentleman, both faces being left a bluraccording to the last fashion in art, which was safe but notaltogether satisfactory.

Her aunt thought that she regretted her answer to Fred,and finding denials useless and explanations impossible, Amyleft her to think what she liked, taking care that Laurieshould know that Fred had gone to Egypt. That was all, buthe understood it, and looked relieved, as he said to himself,with a venerable air . . .

"I was sure she would think better of it. Poor old fellow!I've been through it all, and I can sympathize."

With that he heaved a great sigh, and then, as if he haddischarged his duty to the past, put his feet up on the sofaand enjoyed Amy's letter luxuriously.

While these changes were going on abroad, trouble hadcome at home. But the letter telling that Beth was failingnever reached Amy, and when the next found her at Vevay, forthe heat had driven them from Nice in May, and they had travelledslowly to Switzerland, by way of Genoa and the Italianlakes. She bore it very well, and quietly submitted to thefamily decree that she should not shorten her visit, forsince it was too late to say goodbye to Beth, she had betterstay, and let absence soften her sorrow. But her heart wasvery heavy, she longed to be at home, and every day lookedwistfully across the lake, waiting for Laurie to come andcomfort her.

He did come very soon, for the same mail brought lettersto them both, but he was in Germany, and it took some days toreach him. The moment he read it, he packed his knapsack,bade adieu to his fellow pedestrians, and was off to keep hispromise, with a heart full of joy and sorrow, hope and suspense.

He knew Vevay well, and as soon as the boat touched thelittle quay, he hurried along the shore to La Tour, where theCarrols were living en pension. The garcon was in despairthat the whole family had gone to take a promenade on thelake, but no, the blonde mademoiselle might be in the chateaugarden. If monsieur would give himself the pain of sittingdown, a flash of time should present her. But monsieur couldnot wait even a 'flash of time', and in the middle of thespeech departed to find mademoiselle himself.

A pleasant old garden on the borders of the lovely lake,with chestnuts rustling overhead, ivy climbing everywhere, andthe black shadow of the tower falling far across the sunnywater. At one corner of the wide, low wall was a seat, and hereAmy often came to read or work, or console herself with thebeauty all about her. She was sitting here that day, leaningher head on her hand, with a homesick heart and heavy eyes,thinking of Beth and wondering why Laurie did not come. Shedid not hear him cross the courtyard beyond, nor see him pausein the archway that led from the subterranean path into thegarden. He stood a minute looking at her with new eyes, seeingwhat no one had ever seen before, the tender side of Amy's character.Everything about her mutely suggested love and sorrow,the blotted letters in her lap, the black ribbon that tied upher hair, the womanly pain and patience in her face, even thelittle ebony cross at her throat seemed pathetic to Laurie,for he had given it to her, and she wore it as her only ornament.If he had any doubts about the reception she would givehim, they were set at rest the minute she looked up and sawhim, for dropping everything, she ran to him, exclaiming in atone of unmistakable love and longing . . .

"Oh, Laurie, Laurie, I knew you'd come to me!"

I think everything was said and settled then, for as theystood together quite silent for a moment, with the dark headbent down protectingly over the light one, Amy felt that noone could comfort and sustain her so well as Laurie, andLaurie decided that Amy was the only woman in the world whocould fill Jo's place and make him happy. He did not tell herso, but she was not disappointed, for both felt the truth,were satisfied, and gladly left the rest to silence.

In a minute Amy went back to her place, and while shedried her tears, Laurie gathered up the scattered papers,finding in the sight of sundry well-worn letters and suggestivesketches good omens for the future. As he sat down beside her,Amy felt shy again, and turned rosy red at the recollection ofher impulsive greeting.

"I couldn't help it, I felt so lonely and sad, and was sovery glad to see you. It was such a surprise to look up and findyou, just as I was beginning to fear you wouldn't come," she said,trying in vain to speak quite naturally.

"I came the minute I heard. I wish I could say somethingto comfort you for the loss of dear little Beth, but I can onlyfeel, and . . ." He could not get any further, for he tooturned bashful all of a sudden, and did not quite know what tosay. He longed to lay Amy's head down on his shoulder, and tellher to have a good cry, but he did not dare, so took her handinstead, and gave it a sympathetic squeeze that was better thanwords.

"You needn't say anything, this comforts me," she saidsoftly. "Beth is well and happy, and I mustn't wish her back,but I dread the going home, much as I long to see them all.We won't talk about it now, for it makes me cry, and I wantto enjoy you while you stay. You needn't go right back, needyou?"

"Not if you want me, dear."

"I do, so much. Aunt and Flo are very kind, but youseem like one of the family, and it would be so comfortable tohave you for a little while."

Amy spoke and looked so like a homesick child whose heartwas full that Laurie forgot his bashfulness all at once, andgave her just what she wanted - the petting she was used to andthe cheerful conversation she needed.

"Poor little soul, you look as if you'd grieved yourselfhalf sick! I'm going to take care of you, so don't cry anymore, but come and walk about with me, the wind is too chillyfor you to sit still," he said, in the half-caressing,half-commanding way that Amy liked, as he tied on her hat,drew her arm through his, and began to pace up and down thesunny walk under the new-leaved chestnuts. He felt more atease upon his legs, and Amy found it pleasant to have a strongarm to lean upon, a familiar face to smile at her, and a kindvoice to talk delightfully for her alone.

The quaint old garden had sheltered many pairs of lovers,and seemed expressly made for them, so sunny and secluded wasit, with nothing but the tower to overlook them, and the widelake to carry away the echo of their words, as it rippled bybelow. For an hour this new pair walked and talked, or restedon the wall, enjoying the sweet influences which gave such acharm to time and place, and when an unromantic dinner bellwarned them away, Amy felt as if she left her burden ofloneliness and sorrow behind her in the chateau garden.

The moment Mrs. Carrol saw the girl's altered face, shewas illuminated with a new idea, and exclaimed to herself,"Now I understand it all - the child has been pining for youngLaurence. Bless my heart, I never thought of such a thing!"

With praiseworthy discretion, the good lady said nothing,and betrayed no sign of enlightenment, but cordially urgedLaurie to stay and begged Amy to enjoy his society, for itwould do her more good than so much solitude. Amy was amodel of docility, and as her aunt was a good deal occupiedwith Flo, she was left to entertain her friend, and did itwith more than her usual success.

At Nice, Laurie had lounged and Amy had scolded. AtVevay, Laurie was never idle, but always walking, riding,boating, or studying in the most energetic manner, whileAmy admired everything he did and followed his example asfar and as fast as she could. He said the change was owingto the climate, and she did not contradict him, being gladof a like excuse for her own recovered health and spirits.

The invigorating air did them both good, and much exerciseworked wholesome changes in minds as well as bodies.They seemed to get clearer views of life and duty up thereamong the everlasting hills. The fresh winds blew awaydesponding doubts, delusive fancies, and moody mists. Thewarm spring sunshine brought out all sorts of aspiring ideas,tender hopes, and happy thoughts. The lake seemed to washaway the troubles of the past, and the grand old mountainsto look benignly down upon them saying, "Little children,love one another."

In spite of the new sorrow, it was a very happy time, sohappy that Laurie could not bear to disturb it by a word. Ittook him a little while to recover from his surprise at thecure of his first, and as he had firmly believed, his lastand only love. He consoled himself for the seeming disloyaltyby the thought that Jo's sister was almost the same as Jo'sself, and the conviction that it would have been impossibleto love any other woman but Amy so soon and so well. His firstwooing had been of the tempestuous order, and he looked backupon it as if through a long vista of years with a feeling ofcompassion blended with regret. He was not ashamed of it,but put it away as one of the bitter-sweet experiences of hislife, for which he could be grateful when the pain was over.His second wooing, he resolved, should be as calm and simpleas possible. There was no need of having a scene, hardlyany need of telling Amy that he loved her, she knew it withoutwords and had given him his answer long ago. It all cameabout so naturally that no one could complain, and he knew thateverybody would be pleased, even Jo. But when our first littlepassion has been crushed, we are apt to be wary and slow in makinga second trial, so Laurie let the days pass, enjoying every hour,and leaving to chance the utterance of the word that wouldput an end to the first and sweetest part of his new romance.

He had rather imagined that the denoument would take placein the chateau garden by moonlight, and in the most graceful anddecorous manner, but it turned out exactly the reverse, for thematter was settled on the lake at noonday in a few blunt words.They had been floating about all the morning, from gloomySt. Gingolf to sunny Montreux, with the Alps of Savoy on one side,Mont St. Bernard and the Dent du Midi on the other, pretty Vevay inthe valley, and Lausanne upon the hill beyond, a cloudless bluesky overhead, and the bluer lake below, dotted with the picturesqueboats that look like white-winged gulls.

They had been talking of Bonnivard, as they glided pastChillon, and of Rousseau, as they looked up at Clarens, where hewrote his Heloise. Neither had read it, but they knew it was alove story, and each privately wondered if it was half as interestingas their own. Amy had been dabbling her hand in the waterduring the little pause that fell between them, and when she lookedup, Laurie was leaning on his oars with an expression in his eyesthat made her say hastily, merely for the sake of saying something . . .

"You must be tired. Rest a little, and let me row. It will do megood, for since you came I have been altogether lazy and luxurious."

"I'm not tired, but you may take an oar, if you like. There'sroom enough, though I have to sit nearly in the middle, else theboat won't trim," returned Laurie, as if he rather liked the arrangement.

Feeling that she had not mended matters much, Amy took theoffered third of a seat, shook her hair over her face, and acceptedan oar. She rowed as well as she did many other things, and thoughshe used both hands, and Laurie but one, the oars kept time, andthe boat went smoothly through the water.

"How well we pull together, don't we?" said Amy, who objectedto silence just then.

"So well that I wish we might always pull in the same boat.Will you, Amy?" very tenderly.

"Yes, Laurie," very low.

Then they both stopped rowing, and unconsciously added a prettylittle tableau of human love and happiness to the dissolving viewsreflected in the lake.