He bore it as long as he could, but when he was appealed to for an opinion, he blazed up with honest indignation and defended religion with all the eloquence of truth—­an eloquence which made his broken English musical and his plain face beautiful.  He had a hard fight, for the wise men argued well, but he didn’t know when he was beaten and stood to his colors like a man.  Somehow, as he talked, the world got right again to Jo.  The old beliefs, that had lasted so long, seemed better than the new.  God was not a blind force, and immortality was not a pretty fable, but a blessed fact.  She felt as if she had solid ground under her feet again, and when Mr. Bhaer paused, outtalked but not one whit convinced, Jo wanted to clap her hands and thank him.

She did neither, but she remembered the scene, and gave the Professor her heartiest respect, for she knew it cost him an effort to speak out then and there, because his conscience would not let him be silent.  She began to see that character is a better possession than money, rank, intellect, or beauty, and to feel that if greatness is what a wise man has defined it to be, ‘truth, reverence, and good will’, then her friend Friedrich Bhaer was not only good, but great.

This belief strengthened daily.  She valued his esteem, she coveted his respect, she wanted to be worthy of his friendship, and just when the wish was sincerest, she came near to losing everything.  It all grew out of a cocked hat, for one evening the Professor came in to give Jo her lesson with a paper soldier cap on his head, which Tina had put there and he had forgotten to take off.

“It’s evident he doesn’t look in his glass before coming down,” thought Jo, with a smile, as he said “Goot efening,” and sat soberly down, quite unconscious of the ludicrous contrast between his subject and his headgear, for he was going to read her the Death of Wallenstein.

She said nothing at first, for she liked to hear him laugh out his big, hearty laugh when anything funny happened, so she left him to discover it for himself, and presently forgot all about it, for to hear a German read Schiller is rather an absorbing occupation.  After the reading came the lesson, which was a lively one, for Jo was in a gay mood that night, and the cocked hat kept her eyes dancing with merriment.  The Professor didn’t know what to make of her, and stopped at last to ask with an air of mild surprise that was irresistible. . .

“Mees Marsch, for what do you laugh in your master’s face?  Haf you no respect for me, that you go on so bad?”

“How can I be respectful, Sir, when you forget to take your hat off?” said Jo.

Lifting his hand to his head, the absent-minded Professor gravely felt and removed the little cocked hat, looked at it a minute, and then threw back his head and laughed like a merry bass viol.

“Ah!  I see him now, it is that imp Tina who makes me a fool with my cap.  Well, it is nothing, but see you, if this lesson goes not well, you too shall wear him.”