Aunt March put on her glasses and took a look at the girl,—for she did not know her in this new mood. Meg hardly knew herself, she felt so brave and independent,—so glad to defend John, and assert her right to love him, if she liked. Aunt March saw that she had begun wrong, and, after a little pause, made a fresh start, saying, as mildly as she could, "Now, Meg, my dear, be reasonable, and take my advice. I mean it kindly, and don't want you to spoil your whole life by making a mistake at the beginning. You ought to marry well, and help your family; it's your duty to make a rich match, and it ought to be impressed upon you."
"Father and mother don't think so; they like John, though he is poor."
"Your pa and ma, my dear, have no more worldly wisdom than two babies."
"I'm glad of it," cried Meg, stoutly.
Aunt March took no notice, but went on with her lecture. "This Rook is poor, and hasn't got any rich relations, has he?"
"No; but he has many warm friends."
"You can't live on friends; try it, and see how cool they'll grow. He hasn't any business, has he?"
"Not yet; Mr. Laurence is going to help him."
"That won't last long. James Laurence is a crotchety old fellow, and not to be depended on. So you intend to marry a man without money, position, or business, and go on working harder than you do now, when you might be comfortable all your days by minding me, and doing better? I thought you had more sense, Meg."