Rather sit and relax,” Beth urged.

“Yes, I should.” Obviously fatigued, she sank into her chair as the girls bustled about and got the tea table ready. “We are all so tired out by this war, that little concern has been paid to the werewolves of late, yet the attacks are now greatly slowed. I much prefer to apply my efforts to helping the poor, not condemning them.”

Once everyone was sitting with tea or toast in hand, Mrs. March produced her prize—a letter from Mr. March.

“Father is quite a saint to go to war as a chaplain, although too old and weak to serve as a soldier,” Meg said.

“I would happily go as a drummer. Or perhaps a nurse, to cut off ruined limbs and throw them to the battlefield werewolves,” Jo said, sawing the air with her butter knife.

“Jo!” Four voices wailed in unison, pretty noses wrinkled with disgust.

Jo sighed. As usual, she had said the wrong thing.

Mr. March’s letter was filled with hope and cheer, and he sent his love to each of his “little women”; and each resolved in her soul to be all that Mr. March hoped to find in his girls when the year brought around the happy coming-home.

They all sat silently, sad and dismal, until Mrs. March broke the silence by reminding them of the Pilgrim’s Progress game they used to play, where they would put packs on their backs and pretend to travel the world. They would work their way up from the City of Destruction, which was in the cellar, to the Celestial City, which represented heaven, or eternal reward, on the roof, where a treat of cake and milk awaited the good pilgrims who had survived the valley of the hobgoblins, fighting Apollyon and sneaking past the two roaring lions who tested their faith.

“Now, my little pilgrims,” said Mrs. March, “suppose you begin again, not in play, but in earnest, and see how far on you can get before Father comes home. Look under your pillows in the morning, my dears, and you will find your guidebooks,” she added mysteriously, and would say no more.

They worked a couple of hours on their boring, but necessary, sewing, and then stood around the old, out-of-tune piano as Beth coaxed music from the yellowed keys. They sang together, as was their household custom each evening, Marmee’s rich, beautiful voice leading her girls through the tunes, and then they all went contently off to bed with their lullaby yet wafting through their heads.

CHAPTER 2
•  •  •
A Christmas Show

JO WAS THE FIRST TO WAKE IN THE GRAY DAWN OF CHRISTMAS morning. No stockings hung at the fireplace, and she should have anticipated as much, but her memory still teased her with Christmases past when they each received a sock crammed with goodies. Things were very different now.

Jo suddenly recalled Marmee’s words and dug beneath her pillow, unearthing a crimson-covered book. Pilgrim’s Progress! It was a wonderful old story about the best life ever lived, and a true guide for any and all pilgrims during their life’s journey. When the girls were younger, the book was their daily focus, but as they grew older, they referred to it less and less. Jo understood Marmee’s intent in gifting them each with a copy, for one should not grow too far from righteousness. Meg woke next to find a green-covered edition, Beth found hers dove-colored, and Amy’s was bound in blue. They sat discussing the story while the east grew rosy with the coming day. When they trudged downstairs to wish a merry Christmas to their dear mother, they found only Hannah, who had lived with the family since Meg was born and was considered more a friend than a servant. She told them their mother had rushed off to help some poor creature who had come begging. “She run straight off to see what was needed.”

They decided to have everything ready for her return and assembled a basket with all their presents. They heard the door slam and quickly hid it, but found it was only Amy, who, after reading a bit of Pilgrim’s Progress, felt guilty and went to exchange the small bottle of cologne she had purchased for a larger size for her dearest Marmee.

The street door slammed again and they all hurried to greet their mother, eager for the breakfast whose aroma made their stomachs rumble with want. “Merry Christmas, Marmee! Thank you for the books!” they all cried.

“Merry Christmas, little daughters! Before we sit down, I want to tell you about a poor woman with a brand-new baby and six hungry children not far from here. They are cold and in need, and my only wish for Christmas is that you give them your fine breakfast as a Christmas present and content yourselves with our usual milk and bread for your own Christmas feast.”

The hungry girls wanted to protest, but knew their mother only wanted them to do what was right. For a minute no one spoke; then Jo exclaimed impetuously, “I’m so glad you came before we began to eat!”

All the girls began to pack up the food to carry it, in a small, ragged procession, to the hungry family.

As they started down the path from their home, Jo looked to one side and saw a handsome young man, the Laurence boy, the grandson of the man who owned the fine estate next to their house. She lifted her chin in greeting, her hands being too full to wave. A lovely smile blossomed across the boy’s face and the others called out wishes of a merry Christmas to him.

“I wonder why such a handsome boy keeps so much to himself,” Jo mused aloud.

“He and his grandfather have always done so,” said Marmee.