n, and when he couldn't have one sister he took
the other, and was happy."

Laurie did not utter the words, but he thought them, and the 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 paper and wrote to
Jo, telling her that he could not settle to anything while 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 it energetically, for he was in a fever of
impatience. It came at last, and settled his mind effectually on one
point, for Jo decidedly couldn't and wouldn't. She was wrapped up in
Beth, and never wished to hear the word love again. Then she begged
him to be happy with somebody else, but always keep a little corner of
his heart for his loving sister Jo. In a postscript she desired him
not to tell Amy that Beth was worse, she was coming home in the spring
and there was no need of saddening the remainder of her stay. That
would be time enough, please God, but Laurie must write to her often,
and not let her feel lonely, homesick or anxious.

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

But he did not write the letter that day, for as he rummaged out his
best paper, he came across something which changed his purpose.
Tumbling about in one part of the desk among bills, passports, and
business documents of various kinds were several of Jo's letters, and
in another compartment were three notes from Amy, carefully tied up
with one of her blue ribbons and sweetly suggestive of the little dead
roses put away inside. With a half-repentant, half-amused expression,
Laurie gathered up all Jo's letters, smoothed, folded, and put them
neatly into a small drawer of the desk, stood a minute turning the ring
thoughtfully on his finger, then slowly drew it off, laid it with the
letters, locked the drawer, and went out to hear High Mass at Saint
Stefan's, feeling as if there had been a funeral, and though not
overwhelmed with affliction, this seemed a more proper way to spend the
rest of the day than in writing letters to charming young ladies.

The letter went very soon,