Jo’s keen eyes were rather dim for a minute,
and her thin face grew rosy in the firelight as she
received her father’s praise, feeling that she
did deserve a portion of it.
“Now, Beth,” said Amy, longing for her
turn, but ready to wait.
“There’s so little of her, I’m afraid
to say much, for fear she will slip away altogether,
though she is not so shy as she used to be,”
began their father cheerfully. But recollecting
how nearly he had lost her, he held her close, saying
tenderly, with her cheek against his own, “I’ve
got you safe, my Beth, and I’ll keep you so,
please God.”
After a minute’s silence, he looked down at
Amy, who sat on the cricket at his feet, and said,
with a caress of the shining hair . . .
“I observed that Amy took drumsticks at dinner,
ran errands for her mother all the afternoon, gave
Meg her place tonight, and has waited on every one
with patience and good humor. I also observe
that she does not fret much nor look in the glass,
and has not even mentioned a very pretty ring which
she wears, so I conclude that she has learned to think
of other people more and of herself less, and has
decided to try and mold her character as carefully
as she molds her little clay figures. I am glad
of this, for though I should be very proud of a graceful
statue made by her, I shall be infinitely prouder
of a lovable daughter with a talent for making life
beautiful to herself and others.”
“What are you thinking of, Beth?” asked
Jo, when Amy had thanked her father and told about
her ring.
“I read in Pilgrim’s Progress today
how, after many troubles, Christian and Hopeful came
to a pleasant green meadow where lilies bloomed all
year round, and there they rested happily, as we do
now, before they went on to their journey’s end,”
answered Beth, adding, as she slipped out of her father’s
arms and went to the instrument, “It’s
singing time now, and I want to be in my old place.
I’ll try to sing the song of the shepherd boy
which the Pilgrims heard. I made the music for
Father, because he likes the verses.”
So, sitting at the dear little piano, Beth softly
touched the keys, and in the sweet voice they had
never thought to hear again, sang to her own accompaniment
the quaint hymn, which was a singularly fitting song
for her.
He that is down need fear
no fall,
He that is low no pride.
He that is humble ever shall
Have God to be his guide.
I am content with what I have,
Little be it, or much.
And, Lord! Contentment
still I crave,
Because Thou savest such.
Fulness to them a burden is,
That go on pilgrimage.
Here little, and hereafter
bliss,
Is best from age to age!
AUNT MARCH SETTLES THE QUESTION
