It was not a chill of terror, as one might think, but rather one of excitement and desire. It had been thrilling merely to watch, but her hands itched also to stroke the hair that covered the youth’s body, to feel the animal breath in her face, and to stare into the eyes that had glinted golden in the moonlight.

“The Laurence men are werewolves!” Beth exclaimed.

“It explains the old man’s reluctance to befriend others,” Jo said. “But Beth, we cannot tell anyone. Swear to me you will not tell a soul. Not Marmee, not Meg, not Amy. And not even our father when he returns.” Jo looked at her sister and knew that Beth, sweet, odd Beth, would never tell. She would savor this secret and hide it away deep in the forest of her pretend kingdom, where her cats were queens and her soiled old dolls their subjects.

“I swear, Jo. I would not care to be responsible for their fate if anyone was to know. We have lived alongside that family our entire lives without a problem. Werewolves or not, they are our neighbors. I could not turn on them, no matter that they seldom speak to us; I could not bear having their blood on my hands.”

“There is one matter more to consider,” said Jo. “Our Amy. Think of her reaction if she knew werewolves lived in the house next to ours.”

“She would never sleep through another night!” Beth cried. “She believes they all live far off, beyond the borders of the town, in their own community.”

“Yes,” Jo said. She thought it a wise falsehood invented by Father when Amy was small and suffered so severely from nightmares. She remembered how Marmee and Meg sat up many a night with the weeping child; Father could no longer stand seeing them so exhausted, and so created stories to soothe her.

“There is only one thing to do. Let us add this knowledge to our burdens and we two, alone, shall carry it,” said Beth decidedly.

“Then we agree to be eternally silent in this matter,” Jo said, holding out her hand so Beth could shake it to solidify their oath.

Flushed and aroused with the thrill of what they had witnessed, the sisters ran downstairs, stopping short at the sight of a feast of ice cream both pink and white, cake, fruit, French bonbons, and, in the middle of the table, four enormous vases filled with hothouse flowers.

“Marmee! Where?” Beth asked.

“You could never guess. The others certainly couldn’t. So I will tell you right off. Old Mr. Laurence sent it all,” Mrs. March said with a wide smile.

Beth and Jo stared at each other for a moment, happier than ever for the pledge of silence they had made.

“Did he say why he sent it?” Jo asked.

“Hannah told one of his servants about your breakfast party. He was so impressed with your charity that he felt he had to do something pleasant for you in return.”

“I bet his grandson put him up to it,” Jo said. “He looks as if he’d like to know us, but he’s bashful. I wish we could get acquainted.”

“But Mr. Laurence seems like a nice enough man himself. Even if he doesn’t care to speak much with girls,” Amy said.

“His house is so big and rich-looking,” one of the guests said with a sigh.

“I think he keeps his grandson locked up, like a captive, and makes him study constantly,” Meg added.

“The boy brought this all over himself. I asked him in, but he said he could not stay, even though he looked wistful at hearing the frolic upstairs, and evidently having none of his own,” Mrs. March said. “And then, after he brought the last of it, he hurried away as if on fire.”

Jo felt herself warm at the mention of the boy, and she recalled the sight of him, first with no shirt, his strong, lean arms and shoulders exposed, and then as he transformed from boy to wolf.