Hannah, quite worn out, lay down on the sofa at the bed’s foot and fell fast asleep, Mr. Laurence marched to and fro in the parlor, feeling that he would rather face a rebel battery than Mrs. March’s countenance as she entered.  Laurie lay on the rug, pretending to rest, but staring into the fire with the thoughtful look which made his black eyes beautifully soft and clear.

The girls never forgot that night, for no sleep came to them as they kept their watch, with that dreadful sense of powerlessness which comes to us in hours like those.

“If God spares Beth, I never will complain again,” whispered Meg earnestly.

“If god spares Beth, I’ll try to love and serve Him all my life,” answered Jo, with equal fervor.

“I wish I had no heart, it aches so,” sighed Meg, after a pause.

“If life is often as hard as this, I don’t see how we ever shall get through it,” added her sister despondently.

Here the clock struck twelve, and both forgot themselves in watching Beth, for they fancied a change passed over her wan face.  The house was still as death, and nothing but the wailing of the wind broke the deep hush.  Weary Hannah slept on, and no one but the sisters saw the pale shadow which seemed to fall upon the little bed.  An hour went by, and nothing happened except Laurie’s quiet departure for the station.  Another hour, still no one came, and anxious fears of delay in the storm, or accidents by the way, or, worst of all, a great grief at Washington, haunted the girls.

It was past two, when Jo, who stood at the window thinking how dreary the world looked in its winding sheet of snow, heard a movement by the bed, and turning quickly, saw Meg kneeling before their mother’s easy chair with her face hidden.  A dreadful fear passed coldly over Jo, as she thought, “Beth is dead, and Meg is afraid to tell me.”

She was back at her post in an instant, and to her excited eyes a great change seemed to have taken place.  The fever flush and the look of pain were gone, and the beloved little face looked so pale and peaceful in its utter repose that Jo felt no desire to weep or to lament.  Leaning low over this dearest of her sisters, she kissed the damp forehead with her heart on her lips, and softly whispered, “Goodby, my Beth.  Goodby!”

As if awaked by the stir, Hannah started out of her sleep, hurried to the bed, looked at Beth, felt her hands, listened at her lips, and then, throwing her apron over her head, sat down to rock to and fro, exclaiming, under her breath, “The fever’s turned, she’s sleepin’ nat’ral, her skin’s damp, and she breathes easy.  Praise be given!  Oh, my goodness me!”

Before the girls could believe the happy truth, the doctor came to confirm it.  He was a homely man, but they thought his face quite heavenly when he smiled and said, with a fatherly look at them, “Yes, my dears, I think the little girl will pull through this time.  Keep the house quiet, let her sleep, and when she wakes, give her . . .”