Having with difficulty restrained an explosion of merriment, lest it should offend her majesty, Laurie tapped and was graciously received.
“Sit down and rest while I put these things away, then I want to consult you about a very serious matter,” said Amy, when she had shown her splendor and driven Polly into a corner. “That bird is the trial of my life,” she continued, removing the pink mountain from her head, while Laurie seated himself astride of a chair. “Yesterday, when Aunt was asleep and I was trying to be as still as a mouse, Polly began to squall and flap about in his cage; so I went to let him out, and found a big spider there. I poked it out, and it ran under the bookcase; Polly marched straight after it, stooped down and peeped under the bookcase, saying, in his funny way, with a cock of his eye, ‘Come out and take a walk, my dear.’ I couldn’t help laughing, which made Poll swear, and Aunt woke up and scolded us both.”
“Did the spider accept the old fellow’s invitation?” asked Laurie, yawning.
“Yes, out it came, and away ran Polly, frightened to death, and scrambled up on Aunt’s chair, calling out, ‘Catch her! Catch her! Catch her!’ as I chased the spider.”
“That’s a lie! Oh lor!” cried the parrot, pecking at Laurie’s toes.
“I’d wring your neck if you were mine, you old torment,” cried Laurie, shaking his fist at the bird, who put his head on one side and gravely croaked, “Allyluyer! Bless your buttons, dear!”
“Now I’m ready,” said Amy, shutting the wardrobe and taking a paper out of her pocket. “I want you to read that, please, and tell me if it is legal and right. I felt that I ought to do it, for life is uncertain and I don’t want any ill feeling over my tomb.”
Laurie bit his lips, and turning a little from the pensive speaker, read the following document, with praiseworthy gravity, considering the spelling:
MY LAST WILL AND TESTIMENT.
I, Amy Curtis March, being in my sane mind, do give and bequeethe all my earthly property-viz.de to wit:—namely
To my father, my best pictures, sketches, maps, and works of art, including frames. Also my $100, to do what he likes with.
To my mother, all my clothes, except the blue apron with pockets-also my likeness, and my medal, with much love.
To my dear sister Margaret, I give my turkquoise ring (if I get it), also my green box with the doves on it, also my piece of real lace for her neck, and my sketch of her as a memorial of her “little girl.”
To Jo I leave my breastpin, the one mended with sealing wax, also my bronze inkstand—she lost the cover—and my most precious plaster rabbit, because I am sorry I burned up her story.
To Beth (if she lives after me) I give my dolls and the little bureau, my fan, my linen collars and my new slippers if she can wear them being thin when she gets well. And I herewith also leave her my regret that I ever made fun of old Joanna.
To my friend and neighbor Theodore Laurence I bequeethe my paper mashay portfolio, my clay model of a horse though he did say it hadn’t any neck. Also in return for his great kindness in the hour of affliction any one of my artistic works he likes, Noter Dame is the best.
To our venerable benefactor Mr. Laurence I leave my purple box with a looking glass in the cover which will be nice for his pens and remind him of the departed girl who thanks him for his favors to her family, specially Beth.
I wish my favorite playmate Kitty Bryant to have the blue silk apron and my gold-bead ring with a kiss.
To Hannah I give the bandbox she wanted and all the patchwork I leave hoping she “will remember me, when it you see.”
And now having disposed of my most valuable property I hope all will be satisfied and not blame the dead. I forgive everyone, and trust we may all meet when the trump shall sound. Amen.
To this will and testiment I set my hand and seal on this 20th day of Nov. Anni Domino 1861.
AMY CURTIS MARCH
Witnesses:
ESTELLE VALNOR,
THEODORE LAURENCE.
The last name was written in pencil, and Amy explained that he was to rewrite it in ink and seal it up for her properly.
“What put it into your head? Did anyone tell you about Beth’s giving away her things?” asked Laurie soberly, as Amy laid a bit of red tape, with sealing wax, a taper, and a standish before him.
She explained and then asked anxiously, “What about Beth?”
“I’m sorry I spoke, but as I did, I’ll tell you. She felt so ill one day that she told Jo she wanted to give her piano to Meg, her cats to you, and the poor old doll to Jo, who would love it for her sake. She was sorry she had so little to give, and left locks of hair to the rest of us, and her best love to Grandpa. She never thought of a will.”
Laurie was signing and sealing as he spoke, and did not look up till a great tear dropped on the paper. Amy’s face was full of trouble; but she only said, “Don’t people put sort of postscripts to their wills, sometimes?”
“Yes, ‘codicils,’ they call them.”
“Put one in mine then—that I wish all my curls cut off, and given round to my friends. I forgot it, but I want it done, though it will spoil my looks.”
Laurie added it, smiling at Amy’s last and greatest sacrifice. Then he amused her for an hour, and was much interested in all her trials. But when he came to go, Amy held him back to whisper with trembling lips, “Is there really any danger about Beth?”
“I’m afraid there is, but we must hope for the best, so don’t cry, dear.” And Laurie put his arm about her with a brotherly gesture which was very comforting.
When he had gone, she went to her little chapel, and sitting in the twilight, prayed for Beth, with streaming tears and an aching heart, feeling that a million turquoise rings would not console her for the loss of her gentle little sister.
20
Confidential
I don’t think I have any words in which to tell the meeting of the mother and daughters; such hours are beautiful to live, but very hard to describe, so I will leave it to the imagination of my readers, merely saying that the house was full of genuine happiness, and that Meg’s tender hope was realized; for when Beth woke from that long, healing sleep, the first objects on which her eyes fell were the little rose and Mother’s face. Too weak to wonder at anything, she only smiled and nestled close into the loving arms about her, feeling that the hungry longing was satisfied at last. Then she slept again, and the girls waited upon their mother, for she would not unclasp the thin hand which clung to hers even in sleep.