"What if it is?" Laurie said. "I thought you were not afraid of anything."

"I think I am afraid of him a little bit, but I don't know why I should be. Marmee said I might come, and I don't think you're any the worse for it," Jo said, composing herself as she kept her eyes on the door.

"I'm a great deal the better for it, and ever so much obliged. I'm only afraid you are very tired of talking to me," said Laurie gratefully.

A maid appeared in the doorway and said, "The doctor to see you, sir."

"Would you mind if I left you for a minute?" said Laurie.

"Don't mind me. I'm happy as a cricket here," answered Jo, although truth to tell, she was curious to ask Laurie why he didn't use on himself the same strange healing device he had used on her parboiled hand at the party. But she let the thought slip away and watched as Laurie left the room.

While he was gone, Jo amused herself in her own way. She was standing before a fine portrait of the old gentleman when the door opened again and, without turning, she said decidedly, "I'm sure now that I should be afraid of him, for he's got cruel, dark eyes, and his mouth is altogether grim. He looks as if he has a tremendous will of his own."

"Thank you, ma'am, for that a.n.a.lysis," said a growling voice behind her, and there, to her great dismay, stood old Mr. Laurence. Unlike his grandson, he was squarely built, with short legs and thick, powerful arms. His eyes were as dark as ink wells.

Poor Jo blushed until she couldn't blush any redder, and her heart beat uncomfortably fast in her thin chest as she thought what she had done. Feeling terribly alone and vulnerable, she felt a wild desire to run away, but that was cowardly, so she resolved to stand her ground and get out of this as best she could. A second look showed her that the living eyes, under the bushy eyebrows, were kinder than the painted ones, and was there a sly twinkle in them. The gruff voice was gruffer than ever, as the old gentleman said after the dreadful pause, "So, you say that you're afraid of me, hey?"

"No-no, sir," Jo replied, knowing in her heart that he knew she was not telling the truth.

"And you don't think me as handsome as your grandfather?"

"Not quite, begging your pardon, sir."

"And I've got a tremendous will, have I?"

"I only said I suspect so," Jo stammered.

That final answer seemed to please the old gentleman, for he threw his head back and gave a short, barking laugh and reached out to shake hands with her. His palm, she noticed, was as rough as tree bark, which struck her as odd, seeing as it was the hand of a gentleman.

Putting his finger under her chin, he turned her face up and examined it gravely for a long time. Looking directly at him, and so close, she could see now the same golden glint in his eyes as in Laurie's. After a lengthening moment of intense scrutiny, he let her face go, saying with a nod, "You've got your grandfather's spirit, I dare say, even if you haven't got his face."

"Thank you, sir," said Jo.

"What have you been doing to this boy of mine, hey?" was the next question, sharply put.

"Only trying to be neighborly, sir."

"Neighborly, you say?"

"I wanted to cheer him up in his illness."

"His illness is no concern of yours," the old gentleman replied. "So you think he needs cheering?"

"Yes, sir. A bit, sir. He seems a bit lonely, and being around young folks would do him no end of good. We are only girls, my sisters and I, but we should be glad to help if we could," said Jo eagerly.

"Tut, tut, tut! And what news of your father?"

"We received a letter just the other day, informing us that he will be home in time for Christmas."

"What a fine Christmas present that will be," replied Mr. Laurence. "I, myself, was born on Christmas Day."

Jo had no idea how to respond to that, having heard that people who have the audacity to be born on the Savior's birthday are fated to be evil. She noticed the sudden darkness in his eyes, as if a cloud had shifted in front of the sun, blocking its warming rays.

"Hey! Why? What the d.i.c.kens has come to the fellow?" said the old gentleman as Laurie came running downstairs and was brought up with a start of surprise at the astounding sight of Jo standing in front of his redoubtable grandfather.

"I didn't know you'd come home, sir," Laurie began.

"That's evident by the way you racket downstairs. Come. Behave like a gentleman." He cast a wary eye at Jo, and then added, "Perhaps young master will make the adjustment to his life here after all."

Laurie's face colored at this, and she didn't need to hear him say how much he wanted to go back home, wherever home was.

Turning to Jo, the old gentleman continued, "You're right on the money, Miss March. The lad is lonely so dreadfully far away from home. Perhaps we'll see what these little girls next door can do for him."

Jo determined it was time to go, but Laurie said he had one more thing to show her, and he took her away to the conservatory, which had been lighted for her benefit. It seemed quite fairy-like to Jo as she went up and down the walks, enjoying the blooming walls on either side, the soft light, the sweet, damp air, and the wonderful vines and trees that grew in profusion. Some of them she didn't recognize at all, and many had strange fruits on their vines and thorns on their stems. They filled the air with an intoxicatingly unearthly perfume, which hung about her while her new friend cut the finest flowers until his hands were full. Then he tied them up, saying with a happy look, "Please give these to your cherished mother, and tell her I approve of the medicine she sent to me."

"That will do. That will do, young man," said the old gentleman who was standing in the doorway of the conservatory. Jo had not heard him enter. "Too many sugarplums are not good for her. Going, Miss March? Well, I hope you will come again. Give my respects to your mother."

He bowed deeply to her, but even with his head bowed, he looked at her, and she could tell that something of a sudden had not pleased him. When they got into the hall, Jo whispered to Laurie, asking if she had said or done anything amiss. He shook his head.

"No. It was I. He doesn't like it when I enter the conservatory."

"Why not?"

"I'll tell you another day."

"Take care of yourself, then."

"I will, but will you come again, I hope?"

"Only if you promise to come and visit us, if you are well enough. Perhaps on Christmas day."

"Perhaps I shall."

"Good night, Laurie."

"And a good night to you, too, Doctor Jo."

cd cd When all the afternoon's adventures had been told, the family felt inclined to go visiting in a body, for each found something very attractive in the big house on the other side of the hedge. Mrs. March wanted to talk of her father with the old man who had known him. Meg longed to walk in the flower conservatory and see its exotic beauties, as described by Jo. Amy was eager to see the fine paintings and statues. And Beth sighed from the corner and whispered how she wished she could play the grand piano.

"Mother, what did he mean by that nice little speech he gave about the medicine Mother sent him?" asked Jo. "Did he mean the blancmange?"

"How silly you are, child," Marmee replied. "He meant you, of course."

"He did?"

And Jo opened her eyes as if it had never occurred to her.

"I never saw such a girl! You don't know a compliment when you receive one," said Meg with the air of a young lady who knew all about such matters.

"I think they are a great nonsense, and I'll thank you not to be silly and spoil my fun. Laurie's a nice boy, and I like him, and I won't have any sentimental stuff about compliments and such rubbish spoil my fun. We'll all be good to him because he hasn't got any parents, and he may come over and see us. Mayn't he, Marmee?"

"Yes, Jo. Your friend is very welcome here, and I hope Meg will remember that children should be children as long as they can."

"I don't call myself a child, and I'm not in my teens yet," observed Amy.

"And I say to be a child again would be a lovely thing ... a heavenly thing," whispered Beth from her dark corner beside the fireplace. Only she noticed the way their servant Hannah was standing, unseen and silent, in the doorway, her eyes cast in deep concern.

As Christmas approached, the usual mysteries began to haunt the house, and Jo frequently convulsed the family by proposing utterly impossible or magnificently absurd ceremonies in honor of this unusually merry Christmas they faced this year with Father's promised return. She was impracticable and would have had bonfires, skyrockets, and triumphal arches, if she had her own way. After many skirmishes and snubbings, her extravagant plans were effectually quenched, and she went about with a forlorn face as she retired to the garret where she allowed Scrabble to feed on more blood than was his wont.

Snow arrived the day before Christmas and continued overnight, piling up three feet or more in the country roads and fields. Christmas Day morning dawned dark and gloomy, but the family was determined to spend their day in cozy companionship, except for Jo, who planned to spend some time with Laurie.

Perhaps because of the weather, perhaps because of her uncanny insight, Hannah felt "in her bones" that the day was going to be an unusually bad day, and she proved herself a true prophetess, for everybody and everything seemed bound to go wrong, no matter what one attempted. To begin with, Father had written more than a month ago from the Army hospital in Maryland that he expected to be home soon. Meg thought it would be exquisite if he were to arrive before they shared their holiday dinner, which Hannah took all day to prepare with help from all three girls. But with the weather choking the roads, Marmee expressed her doubts about his arrival before the New Year.

Beth felt uncommonly uneasy that morning, and with the cloudy sky casting such darkness, she shifted from her dark corner by the fireplace to the window, where she looked out with the most forlorn expression possible at the storm, which was now a raging blizzard.

On Christmas Day, the little women had outdone their best efforts to be festive, for, like elves, they had gotten up before dawn and conjured up a comical surprise. Out in the garden stood a stately snowman, crowned with Father's old top hat and bearing a sweet potato for a nose and two lumps of charred wood for eyes, and a castoff scarf wrapped around his neck. Even before the work was done, a layer of snow obscured the features, so carefully molded. After breakfast, when Marmee and Hannah looked out at it, it was nothing more or less than a shapeless hump of pure white mounted by an old beaver top hat.

Jo finally came out of her gloom when Laurie arrived in the evening after their Christmas meal, having trudged through the snow to be with them and bearing gifts. And what ridiculous speeches he made as he presented each gift to the family members.

"I'm so full of happiness," said Meg, once the presents were dispensed and the holiday treats of sugar cookies and dried fruit were consumed. As evening drew on, the storm intensified, whistling under the eaves, and each one of them had given up any hope that Father would arrive to share the blessed day in the warmth and comfort of his loving family.

"I would be truly happy if only Father were here," sighed Beth, who had returned to her corner upon the arrival of the strange boy from next door. She sensed he knew she was there, even though he never once looked directly at her. She watched with empty eyes as the festivities continued, such as they were, but by this time each and every one of the celebrants was exhausted.

"So would I," added Jo, slapping the pocket wherein reposed the long-desired edition of The Marble Fawn she had so wanted.

"I'm sure I am," echoed Amy, poring over the engraved copy of the Madonna and Child, which her mother had given her in a pretty frame.

"Of course I am," cried Meg, smoothing the silvery folds of her first silk dress, for Mr. Laurence had insisted on giving it to her.

"How can I be otherwise?" said Mrs. March gratefully, as her eyes went from her husband's letter to her children's smiling faces, and her hand caressed the brooch made of gray and golden, chestnut and dark brown hair, which the girls had fastened on her dress.

Now and then, however, in this workaday world, things do happen in the delightful storybook fashion, and what a comfort it is when they do. Half an hour after everyone had said they were so happy they could only hold one drop more, that drop came. Laurie had bid them all a goodnight and, wrapped in jacket and scarf, had left by the parlor door. But he was gone for no more than a minute when there came a heavy knocking on the door. Without being invited, he popped his head in very quietly. He might just as well have turned a somersault and uttered an Indian war whoop, for his face was so full of excitement and his voice so treacherously joyful that everyone jumped up, though he only said, in a queer, breathless voice, "Here's another Christmas present for the March family."

Before the words were well out of his mouth, he was whisked away somehow, and in his place stood a tall man, m.u.f.fled to the eyes, who tried to say something but couldn't. His face was gaunt and gray beneath the scarf, and his eyes held a surprising glint of gold, even in the dimly lit room. Hannah, in the kitchen cleaning up after the festivities, uttered a loud gasp of surprise.

Of course, there was a general stampede, and for several minutes everybody seemed to lose their wits, for the strangest things were done, and no one said a word.

Mr. March became invisible in the embrace of three pairs of loving arms. Jo disgraced herself by nearly fainting and had to be doctored by Laurie in the hallway. Meg clasped her hands and let out a whoop of joy that was more befitting Jo, while Amy, the dignified, tumbled over a stool and, never stopping to get up, hugged and cried over her father's snow-covered boots in the most touching manner. Mrs. March was the first to recover herself. She held up her hand with a warning and said, "Hush, children! Remember Beth."

But it was too late.

The figure by the fireplace loomed closer, but then, upon making eye contact with the bundled figure, suddenly shrank back, an expression not of joy but of stark terror on her face. She uttered a low, lonely wail that mingled with the wind in the flue.

"That's not Father," she whispered, but in the ensuing chaos of Father's arrival, not one of them heard her, or, if they did, no one deigned to listen to, much less believe her.

It was not at all romantic, for Hannah was discovered standing in the kitchen doorway, her eyes wide and glistening, her face also a mask of fright that matched Beth's, which had dissolved into the darkness next to the fireplace.

"Why, what is it, dear Hannah?" asked Meg, who was the first to notice the shocked expression on their loving maid's face.

But Hannah found she could say nothing, her tongue was tied into a knot as she regarded Mr. March, all the while shaking her head from side to side and buzzing so loudly Jo was reminded of the sounds hornets might make in their hive. Her eyes narrowed with what could only have been doubt and a rising concern.

Marmee suddenly remembered that Mr. March needed rest and sustenance after what must have been a terribly grueling ordeal through the teeth of the storm, but she paused when she removed her husband's glove and took hold of his hands, squeezing them between her own.

"My Goodness, how cold you are," she said, feeling her own share of concern because she realized that her husband had not spoken a word of greeting. "Come," she said. "Sit by the fire and warm yourself."

Father looked at her with a vague, uncomprehending glance and said nothing as he walked with halting steps over to the nearest chair.

"Aren't you going to sit in your customary chair, Father?" asked Amy, indicating the old wooden rocker with the padded cushions that was placed front and center of the blazing fireplace.

Father stood in the middle of the room, looking mutely at her as though he had no understanding whatsoever of what she had just said. His gaze then wandered around the small parlor with the most mystified expression painted upon his gaunt and pale features. Mrs. March could only shudder at the thought of the ordeals he must have endured since last she had seen him. She noted now that his eyes remained clouded and uncomprehending, as though he were dazed.

All the while, Mr. March spoke not, but he forced a crooked smile when he looked at his wife, exposing wide, white teeth that, in the firelight, looked much larger than anyone remembered. After a glance at Meg, who was violently poking the fire, he looked at his wife again with an inquiring lift of the eyebrows. Mrs. March gently nodded and asked, rather abruptly, if he wouldn't like to have something to eat and drink. Jo saw and understood the look, and she stalked away to get a bottle of wine and some beef tea, muttering to herself as she closed the kitchen door behind her. There, she locked eyes with Hannah, whose expression of shock had abated not at all.

"Why, what ever is the matter, Hannah?" she asked.

Hannah did not respond. She stood immobile and shook her head from side to side and whispered softly, "Beth is right."

Meanwhile, back in the parlor, Amy, who now sat on her father's knee, whispered, "I'm glad it's over because now we've got you back."

"That's not Father," Beth repeated, unseen from the darkness in the corner. Her voice was as soft as the hush of falling snow outside.

"Rather a rough road for you to travel," Mrs. March said to her husband. "Especially the latter part of it in such weather. But you have got on bravely, and your burdens are in a fair way to tumble off very soon." She looked with motherly satisfaction at the young faces gathered around her husband and thought how the worst of their trials, too, must now be close to an end.

"Our troubles are just beginning," said Hannah, who entered from the kitchen a step ahead of Jo, who was carrying a bottle of wine and a steaming cup of beef tea.

"What do you mean?" inquired Marmee, casting a furtive glance at the maid who was moving forward, inching her way as if traversing a pit filled with snakes.

Hannah did not answer her as she cast a long, meaningful glance at Laurie, who throughout the reunion had graciously remained silent and watchful by the door.

"You see it, too, do you not, young Master Laurence?" Hannah asked, turning her full attention on the boy whose first impulse was to fade back into the darkness even if it meant going back out into the fury of the blizzard without his coat and scarf snuggly wrapped around him.

"Tell me. You see it. Don't you?" Hannah said as she took several strides toward him.

Mrs. March and the three girls watched in awe, their attention fixed on these two. Speaking up so forcefully was quite uncharacteristic of Hannah, but Laurie remained perfectly silent for a terribly long moment, his golden eyes flashing back and forth from Mrs. March to each of the girls, including Beth in the corner, and then finally at Father, sitting in his chair. Ever so slightly, he nodded and said, "He is not who I thought he was."

The expression on Hannah's face suddenly fixed with determination as she shifted her gaze again to Father and stared intently at him. Her unblinking eyes held a golden glint, like a cat's eyes in the firelight.

"He's not of our kind," Hannah said.

"Whatever are you two talking about?" inquired Meg, wringing her hands together helplessly, but Hannah said not another word. Instead, with stunning agility, she moved quickly, closing the distance between herself and the gaunt figure shivering in the chair beside the fireplace.

In other circ.u.mstances, had he not been so exhausted from his travels, Meg thought, Father would have reacted in time. But his journey home had worn him past the point of exhaustion, and his only reaction was to let out a high-pitched squealing sound as the maid came up close to him and clasped him by the shoulders with both hands. Then, with a surprising display of strength, she lifted him to his feet, spun him around, and began to push him backward, moving slowly toward the blazing fireplace.

"In Heaven's name, Hannah! What in G.o.d's name are you doing?" Marmee cried out.

She and her daughters watched, in stunned silence, unable to comprehend and certainly unable to react quickly enough to help Father. Jo dropped the bottle of wine and the cup of beef tea, which shattered on the hardwood floor, as she let out a wild cry. Everyone watched as Hannah, her face set with grim determination, struggled with Father. Faint, inhuman sounds issued from her throat as she forced him ever so slowly backward, closer to the fire. When the heel of his boot caught on a raised hearthstone, she pushed him away from her. Father tumbled backward and fell flat on his back onto the blazing logs. A bright shower of sparks corkscrewed up the chimney as the flames engulfed him with a roar.

What happened next would be the subject of great discussion for a long time afterward in the March household, but all agreed that something most unnatural occurred in their home for, indeed, it was evident that the figure they had a.s.sumed was Father was, indeed, not that personage at all. The flames quickly consumed the outer sh.e.l.l of the creature that had taken the shape of their loving husband and father, and writhing and thrashing about on the floor, it all the while emitted shrill, screeching sounds that reminded Jo of the cries a coyote makes in the forest on a full moon night. The skin of the being's face burned away with the hissing blue flare of a gas jet, peeling back skin to expose another visage hidden beneath, one that had scaled green skin like a frog's, large shining oval eyes the color of ebony, and three rows of needle-sharp teeth.