“Now she’s mad.  Oh, dear, I wish I hadn’t asked you to speak, Mama,” said May, looking disconsolately at the empty spaces on her table.

“Girls’ quarrels are soon over,” returned her mother, feeling a trifle ashamed of her own part in this one, as well she might.

The little girls hailed Amy and her treasures with delight, which cordial reception somewhat soothed her perturbed spirit, and she fell to work, determined to succeed florally, if she could not artistically.  But everything seemed against her.  It was late, and she was tired.  Everyone was too busy with their own affairs to help her, and the little girls were only hindrances, for the dears fussed and chattered like so many magpies, making a great deal of confusion in their artless efforts to preserve the most perfect order.  The evergreen arch wouldn’t stay firm after she got it up, but wiggled and threatened to tumble down on her head when the hanging baskets were filled.  Her best tile got a splash of water, which left a sepia tear on the Cupid’s cheek.  She bruised her hands with hammering, and got cold working in a draft, which last affliction filled her with apprehensions for the morrow.  Any girl reader who has suffered like afflictions will sympathize with poor Amy and wish her well through her task.

There was great indignation at home when she told her story that evening.  Her mother said it was a shame, but told her she had done right.  Beth declared she wouldn’t go to the fair at all, and Jo demanded why she didn’t take all her pretty things and leave those mean people to get on without her.

“Because they are mean is no reason why I should be.  I hate such things, and though I think I’ve a right to be hurt, I don’t intend to show it.  They will feel that more than angry speeches or huffy actions, won’t they, Marmee?”

“That’s the right spirit, my dear.  A kiss for a blow is always best, though it’s not very easy to give it sometimes,” said her mother, with the air of one who had learned the difference between preaching and practicing.

In spite of various very natural temptations to resent and retaliate, Amy adhered to her resolution all the next day, bent on conquering her enemy by kindness.  She began well, thanks to a silent reminder that came to her unexpectedly, but most opportunely.  As she arranged her table that morning, while the little girls were in the anteroom filling the baskets, she took up her pet production, a little book, the antique cover of which her father had found among his treasures, and in which on leaves of vellum she had beautifully illuminated different texts.  As she turned the pages rich in dainty devices with very pardonable pride, her eye fell upon one verse that made her stop and think.  Framed in a brilliant scrollwork of scarlet, blue and gold, with little spirits of good will helping one another up and down among the thorns and flowers, were the words, “Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself.”