“Do you worry about me, Jo?”
“A little, when you look moody and discontented, as you sometimes do, for you’ve got such a strong will, if you once get started wrong, I’m afraid it would be hard to stop you.”
Laurie walked in silence a few minutes, and Jo watched him, wishing she had held her tongue, for his eyes looked angry, though his lips smiled as if at her warnings.
“Are you going to deliver lectures all the way home?” he asked presently.
“Of course not. Why?”
“Because if you are, I’ll take a bus. If you’re not, I’d like to walk with you and tell you something very interesting.”
“I won’t preach any more, and I’d like to hear the news immensely.”
“Very well, then, come on. It’s a secret, and if I tell you, you must tell me yours.”
“I haven’t got any,” began Jo, but stopped suddenly, remembering that she had.
“You know you have — mdash; you can’t hide anything, so up and fess, or I won’t tell,” cried Laurie.
“Is your secret a nice one?”
“Oh, isn’t it! All about people you know, and such fun! You ought to hear it, and I’ve been aching to tell it this long time. Come, you begin.”
“You’ll not say anything about it at home, will you?”
“Not a word.”
“And you won’t tease me in private?”
“I never tease.”
“Yes, you do. You get everything you want out of people. I don’t know how you do it, but you are a born wheedler.”
“Thank you. Fire away.”
“Well, I’ve left two stories with a newspaperman, and he’s to give his answer next week,” whispered Jo, in her confidant’s ear.
“Hurrah for Miss March, the celebrated American authoress!” cried Laurie, throwing up his hat and catching it again, to the great delight of two ducks, four cats, five hens, and half a dozen Irish children, for they were out of the city now.
“Hush! It won’t come to anything, I dare say, but I couldn’t rest till I had tried, and I said nothing about it because I didn’t want anyone else to be disappointed.”
“It won’t fail. Why, Jo, your stories are works of Shakespeare compared to half the rubbish that is published every day. Won’t it be fun to see them in print, and shan’t we feel proud of our authoress?”
Jo’s eyes sparkled, for it is always pleasant to be believed in, and a friend’s praise is always sweeter than a dozen newspaper puffs.
“Where’s your secret? Play fair, Teddy, or I’ll never believe you again,” she said, trying to extinguish the brilliant hopes that blazed up at a word of encouragement.
“I may get into a scrape for telling, but I didn’t promise not to, so I will, for I never feel easy in my mind till I’ve told you any plummy bit of news I get. I know where Meg’s glove is.”
“Is that all? said Jo, looking disappointed, as Laurie nodded and twinkled with a face full of mysterious intelligence.
“It’s quite enough for the present, as you’ll agree when I tell you where it is.”
“Tell, then.”
Laurie bent, and whispered three words in Jo’s ear, which produced a comical change. She stood and stared at him for a minute, looking both surprised and displeased, then walked on, saying sharply, “How do you know?”
“Saw it.”
“Where?’
“Pocket.”
“All this time?”
“Yes, isn’t that romantic?”
“No, it’s horrid.”
“Don’t you like it?”
“Of course I don’t. It’s ridiculous, it won’t be allowed. My patience! What would Meg say?”
“You are not to tell anyone. Mind that.”
“I didn’t promise.”
“That was understood, and I trusted you.”
“Well, I won’t for the present, anyway, but I’m disgusted, and wish you hadn’t told me.”
“I thought you’d be pleased.”
“At the idea of anybody coming to take Meg away? No, thank you.”
“You’ll feel better about it when somebody comes to take you away.”
“I’d like to see anyone try it,” cried Jo fiercely.
“So should I!” And Laurie chuckled at the idea.
“I don’t think secrets agree with me, I feel rumpled up in my mind since you told me that,” said Jo rather ungratefully.