was very full, and she longed to speak. But young as she was Jo had learned that hearts, like flowers, cannot be rudely handled, but must open naturally; so, though she believed she knew the cause of Beth's new pain, she only said, in her tenderest tone, "Does anything trouble you, deary?"
"Yes, Jo!" after a long pause.
"Wouldn't it comfort you to tell me what it is?"
"Not now, not yet."
"Then I won't ask; but remember, Bethy, that mother and Jo are always glad to hear and help you, if they can."
"I know it. I'll tell you by and by."
"Is the pain better now?"
"Oh, yes, much better; you are so comfortable, Jo!"
"Go to sleep, dear; I'll stay with you."
So cheek to cheek they fell asleep, and on the morrow Beth seemed quite herself again; for, at eighteen, neither heads nor hearts ache long, and a loving word can medicine most ills.
But Jo had made up her mind, and, after pondering over a project for some days, she confided it to her mother.
"You asked me the other day what my wishes were. I'll tell you one of them, Marmee," she began, as they sat alone together. "I want to go away somewhere this winter for a change."
"Why, Jo?" and her mother looked up quickly, as if the words suggested a double meaning.
With her eyes on her work, Jo answered soberly, "I want something new; I feel restless, and anxious to be seeing, doing, and learning more than I am. I brood too much over my own small affairs, and need