shall be meal-bags, sister; so be resigned.' And Mrs Jo subsided into
a corner, much dishevelled by her benevolent exertions.

'I know I shall be stout; but you won't keep still long enough to get
much flesh on your bones, dear; and Amy will always keep her lovely
figure. She looks about eighteen tonight, in her white gown and roses,'
answered Meg, busily pinning up one sister's torn frills, while her eyes
fondly followed the other's graceful movements; for Meg still adored Amy
in the old fashion.

It was one of the family jokes that Jo was getting fat, and she kept it
up, though as yet she had only acquired a matronly outline, which was
very becoming. They were laughing over the impending double chins, when
Mr Laurie came off duty for a moment.

'Repairing damages as usual, Jo? You never could take a little gentle
exercise without returning in rags. Come and have a quiet stroll with me
and cool off before supper. I've a series of pretty tableaux to show
you while Meg listens to the raptures of lisping Miss Carr, whom I made
happy by giving her Demi for a partner.'

As he spoke, Laurie led Jo to the music-room, nearly empty now after a
dance which sent the young people into garden and hall. Pausing before
the first of the four long windows that opened on a very wide piazza, he
pointed to a group outside, saying: 'The name of this is "Jack Ashore".'

A pair of long, blue legs, ending in very neat pumps, hung from the
veranda roof among the vines; and roses, gathered by unseen hands,
evidently appertaining to aforesaid legs, were being dropped into the
laps of several girls perched like a flock of white birds on the railing
below; while a manly voice 'fell like a falling star', as it sung this
pensive ditty to a most appreciative audience:

MARY'S DREAM

The moon had climbed the eastern hill
Which rises o'er the sands of Dee,
And from its highest summit shed
A silver light on tower and tree,
When Mary laid her down to sleep
(Her thoughts on Sandy far at sea);
When soft and low a voice was heard,
Saying, 'Mary, weep no more for me.'

She from her pillow gently raised
Her head, to see who there might be,
And saw young Sandy, shivering stand
With visage pale and hollow e'e.
'Oh Mary dear, cold is my clay;
It lies beneath the stormy sea;
Far, far from thee, I sleep in death.
Dear Mary, weep no more for me.

'Three stormy nights a