Louisa loved all these plays, and she made some of her own and wrote them down so that the children could act them.

But better than fun or writing Louisa loved her mother, and by and by, as the little girl began to grow into a big girl, she felt very sad to see her dear mother work so hard.  She helped all she could with the housework, but nothing could really help the tired mother except money; she needed money for food and clothes, and someone grown up, to help in the house.  But there never was enough money for these things, and Louisa’s mother grew more and more weary, and sometimes ill.  I cannot tell you how much Louisa suffered over this.

At last, as Louisa thought about it, she came to care more about helping her mother and her father and her sisters than about anything else in all the world.  And she began to work very hard to earn money.  She sewed for people, and when she was a little older she taught some little girls their lessons, and then she wrote stories for the papers.  Every bit of money she earned, except what she had to use, she gave to her dear family.  It helped very much, but it was so little that Louisa never felt as if she were doing anything.

Every year she grew more unselfish, and every year she worked harder.  She liked writing stories best of all her work, but she did not get much money for them, and some people told her she was wasting her time.

At last, one day, a publisher asked Louisa, who was now a woman, to write a book for girls.  Louisa was not very well, and she was very tired, but she always said, “I’ll try,” when she had a chance to work; so she said, “I’ll try,” to the publisher.  When she thought about the book she remembered the good times she used to have with her sisters in the big, bare house in the country.  And so she wrote a story and put all that in it; she put her dear mother and her wise father in it, and all the little sisters, and besides the jolly times and the plays, she put the sad, hard times in,—­the work and worry and going without things.

When the book was written, she called it Little Women, and sent it to the publisher.

And, children, the little book made Louisa famous.  It was so sweet and funny and sad and real,—­like our own lives,—­that everybody wanted to read it.  Everybody bought it, and much money came from it.  After so many years, little Louisa’s wish came true:  she bought a nice house for her family; she sent one of her sisters to Europe, to study; she gave her father books; but best of all, she was able to see to it that the beloved mother, so tired and so ill, could have rest and happiness.  Never again did the dear mother have to do any hard work, and she had pretty things about her all the rest of her life.

Louisa Alcott, for that was Louisa’s name, wrote many beautiful books after this, and she became one of the most famous women of America.  But I think the most beautiful thing about her is what I have been telling you:  that she loved her mother so well that she gave her whole life to make her happy.