was chosen from all the rest to go proudly up bearing the lamp, but
because Mrs. Jo said heartily, “Good-night, my boy! God bless
you!” as he left her at her door.
“I wish I was your boy,” said Dan, who felt as if danger and trouble
had somehow brought him nearer than ever to her.
“You shall be my oldest son,” and she sealed her promise with a
kiss that made Dan hers entirely.
Little Rob was all right next day, but Nan had a headache, and lay
on Mother Bhaer’s sofa with cold-cream upon her scratched face.
Her remorse was quite gone, and she evidently thought being lost
rather a fine amusement. Mrs. Jo was not pleased with this state of
things, and had no desire to have her children led from the paths of
virtue, or her pupils lying round loose in huckleberry fields. So she
talked soberly to Nan, and tried to impress upon her mind the
difference between liberty and license, telling several tales to
enforce her lecture. She had not decided how to punish Nan, but
one of these stories suggested a way, and as Mrs. Jo liked odd
penalties, she tried it.
“All children run away,” pleaded Nan, as if it was as natural and
necessary a thing as measles or hooping cough.
“Not all, and some who do run away don’t get found again,”
answered Mrs. Jo.
“Didn’t you do it yourself?” asked Nan, whose keen little eyes saw
some traces of a kindred spirit in the serious lady who was sewing
so morally before her.
Mrs. Jo laughed, and owned that she did.
“Tell about it,” demanded Nan, feeling that she was getting the
upper hand in the discussion.
Mrs. Jo saw that, and sobered down at once, saying, with a
remorseful shake of the head,
“I did it a good many times, and led my poor mother rather a hard
life with my pranks, till she cured me.”
“How?” and Nan sat up with a face full of interest.
“I had a new pair of shoes once, and wanted to show them; so,
though I was told not to leave the garden, I ran away and was
wandering about all day. It was in the city, and why I wasn’t killed
I don’t know. Such a time as I had. I frolicked in the park with
dogs, sailed boats in the Back Bay with strange boys, dined with a
little Irish beggar-girl on salt fish and potatoes, and was found at
last fast asleep on a door-step with my arms round a great dog. It
was late in the evening, and I was a dirty as a little pig, and the
new shoes were worn out I had travelled so far.”
“How nice!” cried Nan, looking all ready to go and do it herself.
“It was not nice next day;” and Mrs. Jo tried to keep her eyes from
betraying how much she enjoyed the memory of her early capers.
“Did your mother whip you?” asked Nan, curiously.
“She never whipped me but once, and then she begged my pardon,
or I don’t think I ever should have forgiven her, it hurt my feelings
so much.”
“Why did she beg your pardon? my father don’t.”
“Because, when she had done it, I turned round and said, ‘Well,
you are mad yourself, and ought to be whipped as much as me.’
She looked at me a minute, then her anger all died out, and she
said, as if ashamed, ‘You are right, Jo, I am angry; and why should
I punish you for being in a passion when I set you such a bad
example? Forgive me, dear, and let us try to help one another in a
better way.’ I never forgot it, and it did me more good than a dozen
rods.”
Nan sat thoughtfully turning the little cold-cream jar for a minute,
and Mrs. Jo said nothing, but let that idea get well into the busy
little mind that was so quick to see and feel what went on about
her.
“I like that,” said Nan, presently, and her face looked less elfish,
with its sharp eyes, inquisitive nose, and mischievous mouth.