quieter, and introduced Josie as a bonny country lass
setting the supper-table in a bad humour. The pettish way in which she
slapped down the plates, hustled the cups, and cut the big brown loaf,
as she related her girlish trials and ambitions, was capital. Mrs Jo
kept her eye on Miss Cameron, and saw her nod approval several times at
some natural tone or gesture, some good bit of by-play or a quick change
of expression in the young face, which was as variable as an April day.
Her struggle with the toasting-fork made much merriment; so did her
contempt for the brown sugar, and the relish with which she sweetened
her irksome duties by eating it; and when she sat, like Cinderella, on
the hearth, tearfully watching the flames dance on the homely room, a
girlish voice was heard to exclaim impulsively:

'Poor little thing! she ought to have some fun!'

The old woman enters; and mother and daughter have a pretty scene, in
which the latter coaxes and threatens, kisses and cries, till she wins
the reluctant consent of the former to visit a rich relation in the
city; and from being a little thunder-cloud Dolly becomes bewitchingly
gay and good, as soon as her wilful wish is granted. The poor old soul
has hardly recovered from this trial when the son enters, in army
blue, tells he has enlisted and must go. That is a hard blow; but the
patriotic mother bears it well, and not till the thoughtless young folks
have hastened away to tell their good news elsewhere does she break
down. Then the country kitchen becomes pathetic as the old mother sits
alone mourning over her children, till the grey head is hidden in the
hands as she kneels down by the cradle to weep and pray, with only Baby
to comfort her fond and faithful heart.

Sniffs were audible all through the latter part of this scene; and
when the curtain fell, people were so busy wiping their eyes that for
a moment they forgot to applaud. That silent moment was more flattering
than noise; and as Mrs Jo wiped the real tears off her sister's
face, she said as solemnly as an unconscious dab of rouge on her nose
permitted:

'Meg, you have saved my play! Oh, why aren't you a real actress, and I a
real playwright?'

'Don't gush now, dear, but help me dress Josie; she's in such a quiver
of excitement, I can't manage her, and this is her best scene, you
know.'

So it was; for her aunt had written it especially for her, and little Jo
was happy in a gorgeous dress, with a train lon