“Yes, nobody minds them, so lark away, but don’t get wild, will you?  Or there will be an end of all our good times.”

“I’ll be a double distilled saint.”

“I can’t bear saints.  Just be a simple, honest, respectable boy, and we’ll never desert you.  I don’t know what I should do if you acted like Mr. King’s son.  He had plenty of money, but didn’t know how to spend it, and got tipsy and gambled, and ran away, and forged his father’s name, I believe, and was altogether horrid.”

“You think I’m likely to do the same?  Much obliged.”

“No, I don’t—­oh, dear, no!—­but I hear people talking about money being such a temptation, and I sometimes wish you were poor.  I shouldn’t worry then.”

“Do you worry about me, Jo?”

“A little, when you look moody and discontented, as you sometimes do, for you’ve got such a strong will, if you once get started wrong, I’m afraid it would be hard to stop you.”

Laurie walked in silence a few minutes, and Jo watched him, wishing she had held her tongue, for his eyes looked angry, though his lips smiled as if at her warnings.

“Are you going to deliver lectures all the way home?” he asked presently.

“Of course not.  Why?”

“Because if you are, I’ll take a bus.  If you’re not, I’d like to walk with you and tell you something very interesting.”

“I won’t preach any more, and I’d like to hear the news immensely.”

“Very well, then, come on.  It’s a secret, and if I tell you, you must tell me yours.”

“I haven’t got any,” began Jo, but stopped suddenly, remembering that she had.

“You know you have—­you can’t hide anything, so up and ’fess, or I won’t tell,” cried Laurie.

“Is your secret a nice one?”

“Oh, isn’t it!  All about people you know, and such fun!  You ought to hear it, and I’ve been aching to tell it this long time.  Come, you begin.”

“You’ll not say anything about it at home, will you?”

“Not a word.”

“And you won’t tease me in private?”

“I never tease.”

“Yes, you do.  You get everything you want out of people.  I don’t know how you do it, but you are a born wheedler.”

“Thank you.  Fire away.”

“Well, I’ve left two stories with a newspaperman, and he’s to give his answer next week,” whispered Jo, in her confidant’s ear.

“Hurrah for Miss March, the celebrated American authoress!” cried Laurie, throwing up his hat and catching it again, to the great delight of two ducks, four cats, five hens, and half a dozen Irish children, for they were out of the city now.

“Hush!  It won’t come to anything, I dare say, but I couldn’t rest till I had tried, and I said nothing about it because I didn’t want anyone else to be disappointed.”

“It won’t fail.  Why, Jo, your stories are works of Shakespeare compared to half the rubbish that is published every day.  Won’t it be fun to see them in print, and shan’t we feel proud of our authoress?”