home with the Carrols, a month or more ago, but they suddenly changed their minds, and decided to pass another winter in Paris. But grandpa wanted to come home; he went to please me, and I couldn't let him go alone, neither could I leave Amy; and Mrs. Carrol had got English notions about chaperons, and such nonsense, and wouldn't let Amy come with us. So I just settled the difficulty, by saying, 'Let's be married, and then we can do as we like.'"
"Of course you did; you always have things to suit you."
"Not always;" and something in Laurie's voice made Jo say, hastily,—
"How did you ever get aunt to agree?"
"It was hard work; but, between us, we talked her over, for we had heaps of good reasons on our side. There wasn't time to write and ask leave, but you all liked it, and had consented to it by and by—and it was only 'taking time by the fetlock,' as my wife says."
"Aren't we proud of those two words, and don't we like to say them?" interrupted Jo, addressing the fire in her turn, and watching with delight the happy light it seemed to kindle in the eyes that had been so tragically gloomy when she saw them last.
"A trifle, perhaps; she's such a captivating little woman I can't help being proud of her. Well, then, uncle and aunt were there to play propriety; we were so absorbed in one another we were of no mortal use apart, and that charming arrangement would make everything easy all round; so we did it."
"When, where, how?" asked Jo, in a fever of