"We three will be ready in a minute," cried Amy, running
away to wash her hands.

"Can I do anything for you, Madam Mother?" asked
Laurie, leaning over Mrs. March's chair, with the affectionate
look and tone he always gave her.

"No, thank you, except call at the office, if you'll be so kind,
dear. It's our day for a letter, and the postman hasn't been.
Father is as regular as the sun; there 's some delay on the way,
perhaps."

A sharp ring interrupted her, and a minute after Hannah
came in with a letter.

"It's one of them horrid telegraph things, mum," she said,
handing it as if she was afraid it would explode and do some
damage.

At the word "telegraph," Mrs. March snatched it, read the
two lines it contained, and dropped back into her chair as white
as if the little paper had sent a bullet to her heart. Laurie
dashed down stairs for water, while Meg and Hannah supported
her, and Jo read aloud, in a frightened voice, --

"MRS. MARCH:

"Your husband is very ill. Come at once.

" S. HALE,
"Blank Hospital, Washington."

How still the room was as they listened breathlessly, how
strangely the day darkened outside, and how suddenly the
whole world seemed to change, as the girls gathered about
their mother, feeling as if all the happiness and support of
their lives was about to be taken from them. Mrs. March was
herself again directly; read the message over, and stretched out
her arms to her daughters, saying, in a tone they never for-
got, "I shall go at once, but it may be too late. O children,
children, help me to bear it!"

For several minutes there was nothing but the sound of
sobbing in the room, mingled with broken words of comfort

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