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, however, and was promptly answered, for Amy was homesick, and confessed it in the most delightfully confiding manner.  The correspondence flourished famously, and letters flew to and fro with unfailing regularity all through the early spring.  Laurie sold his busts, made allumettes of his opera, and went back to Paris, hoping somebody would arrive before long.  He wanted desperately to go to Nice, but would not till he was asked, and Amy would not ask him, for just then she was having little experiences of her own, which made her rather wish to avoid the quizzical eyes of ‘our boy’.