d, like one boy; and an hour later they went away
with Franz to bear their part in John Brooke's simple funeral.

The little house looked as quiet, sunny, and home-like as when Meg
entered it as a bride, ten years ago, only then it was early summer,
and rose blossomed everywhere; now it was early autumn, and dead leaves
rustled softly down, leaving the branches bare. The bride was a widow
now; but the same beautiful serenity shone in her face, and the sweet
resignation of a truly pious soul made her presence a consolation to
those who came to comfort her.

"O Meg! how can you bear it so?" whispered Jo, as she met them at the
door with a smile of welcome, and no change in her gentle manner, except
more gentleness.

"Dear Jo, the love that has blest me for ten happy years supports me
still. It could not die, and John is more my own than ever," whispered
Meg; and in her eyes the tender trust was so beautiful and bright, that
Jo believed her, and thanked God for the immortality of love like hers.

They were all there father and mother, Uncle Teddy, and Aunt Amy, old
Mr. Laurence, white-haired and feeble now, Mr. and Mrs. Bhaer, with
their flock, and many friends, come to do honor to the dead. One would
have said that modest John Brooke, in his busy, quiet, humble life,
had had little time to make friends; but now they seemed to start
up everywhere, old and young, rich and poor, high and low; for all
unconsciously his influence had made itself widely felt, his virtues
were remembered, and his hidden charities rose up to bless him. The
group about his coffin was a far more eloquent eulogy than any Mr. March
could utter. There were the rich men whom he had served faithfully for
years; the poor old women whom he cherished with his little store, in
memory of his mother; the wife to whom he had given such happiness that
death could not mar it utterly; the brothers and sisters in whose hearts
he had made a place for ever; the little son and daughter, who already
felt the loss of his strong arm and tender voice; the young children,
sobbing for their kindest playmate, and the tall lads, watching with
softened faces a scene which they never could forget. A very simple
service, and very short; for the fatherly voice that had faltered in the
marriage-sacrament now failed entirely as Mr. March endeavored to pay
his tribute of reverence and love to the son whom he most honored.
Nothing but the soft coo of Baby Josy's voice up-stairs b