been more prickly than ever, fortunately
she wasn't thinking about herself, so when the time came, down she
dropped.

Now, if she had been the heroine of a moral storybook, she ought at
this period of her life to have become quite saintly, renounced the
world, and gone about doing good in a mortified bonnet, with tracts in
her pocket. But, you see, Jo wasn't a heroine, she was only a
struggling human girl like hundreds of others, and she just acted out
her nature, being sad, cross, listless, or energetic, as the mood
suggested. It's highly virtuous to say we'll be good, but we can't do
it all at once, and it takes a long pull, a strong pull, and a pull all
together before some of us even get our feet set in the right way. Jo
had got so far, she was learning to do her duty, and to feel unhappy if
she did not, but to do it cheerfully, ah, that was another thing! She
had often said she wanted to do something splendid, no matter how hard,
and now she had her wish, for what could be more beautiful than to
devote her life to Father and Mother, trying to make home as happy to
them as they had to her? And if difficulties were necessary to
increase the splendor of the effort, what could be harder for a
restless, ambitious girl than to give up her own hopes, plans, and
desires, and cheerfully live for others?

Providence had taken her at her word. Here was the task, not what she
had expected, but better because self had no part in it. Now, could she
do it? She decided that she would try, and in her first attempt she
found the helps I have suggested. Still another was given her, and she
took it, not as a reward, but as a comfort, as Christian took the
refreshment afforded by the little arbor where he rested, as he climbed
the hill called Difficulty.

"Why don't you write? That always used to make you happy," said her
mother once, when the desponding fit over-shadowed Jo.

"I've no heart to write, and if I had, nobody cares for my things."

"We do. Write something for us, and never mind the rest of the world.
Try it, dear. I'm sure it would do you good, and please us very much."

"Don't believe I can." But Jo got out her desk and began to overhaul
her half-finished manuscripts.

An hour afterward her mother peeped in and there she was, scratching
away, with her black pinafore on, and an absorbed expression, which
caused Mrs. March to smile and slip away, well pleased with the success
of her suggestion. Jo neve