“Who was Jimmy?” asked Amy, who liked to have things explained as they went along.

“Her son, she said, who was in the army.  How friendly such things make strangers feel, don’t they?  She talked away all the time the man clipped, and diverted my mind nicely.”

“Didn’t you feel dreadfully when the first cut came?” asked Meg, with a shiver.

“I took a last look at my hair while the man got his things, and that was the end of it.  I never snivel over trifles like that.  I will confess, though, I felt queer when I saw the dear old hair laid out on the table, and felt only the short rough ends of my head.  It almost seemed as if I’d an arm or leg off.  The woman saw me look at it, and picked out a long lock for me to keep.  I’ll give it to you, Marmee, just to remember past glories by, for a crop is so comfortable I don’t think I shall ever have a mane again.”

Mrs. March folded the wavy chestnut lock, and laid it away with a short gray one in her desk.  She only said, “Thank you, deary,” but something in her face made the girls change the subject, and talk as cheerfully as they could about Mr. Brooke’s kindness, the prospect of a fine day tomorrow, and the happy times they would have when Father came home to be nursed.

No one wanted to go to bed when at ten o’clock Mrs. March put by the last finished job, and said, “Come girls.”  Beth went to the piano and played the father’s favorite hymn.  All began bravely, but broke down one by one till Beth was left alone, singing with all her heart, for to her music was always a sweet consoler.

“Go to bed and don’t talk, for we must be up early and shall need all the sleep we can get.  Good night, my darlings,” said Mrs. March, as the hymn ended, for no one cared to try another.

They kissed her quietly, and went to bed as silently as if the dear invalid lay in the next room.  Beth and Amy soon fell asleep in spite of the great trouble, but Meg lay awake, thinking the most serious thoughts she had ever known in her short life.  Jo lay motionless, and her sister fancied that she was asleep, till a stifled sob made her exclaim, as she touched a wet cheek . . .

“Jo, dear, what is it?  Are you crying about father?”

“No, not now.”

“What then?”

“My . . .  My hair!” burst out poor Jo, trying vainly to smother her emotion in the pillow.

It did not seem at all comical to Meg, who kissed and caressed the afflicted heroine in the tenderest manner.

“I’m not sorry,” protested Jo, with a choke.  “I’d do it again tomorrow, if I could.  It’s only the vain part of me that goes and cries in this silly way.  Don’t tell anyone, it’s all over now.  I thought you were asleep, so I just made a little private moan for my one beauty.  How came you to be awake?”

“I can’t sleep, I’m so anxious,” said Meg.

“Think about something pleasant, and you’ll soon drop off.”