Fred Vaughn had returned, and put the question to which she had once decided to answer, “Yes, thank you,” but now she said, “No, thank you,” kindly but steadily, for when the time came, her courage failed her, and she found that something more than money and position was needed to satisfy the new longing that filled her heart so full of tender hopes and fears.  The words, “Fred is a good fellow, but not at all the man I fancied you would ever like,” and Laurie’s face when he uttered them, kept returning to her as pertinaciously as her own did when she said in look, if not in words, “I shall marry for money.”  It troubled her to remember that now, she wished she could take it back, it sounded so unwomanly.  She didn’t want Laurie to think her a heartless, worldly creature.  She didn’t care to be a queen of society now half so much as she did to be a lovable woman.  She was so glad he didn’t hate her for the dreadful things she said, but took them so beautifully and was kinder than ever.  His letters were such a comfort, for the home letters were very irregular and not half so satisfactory as his when they did come.  It was not only a pleasure, but a duty to answer them, for the poor fellow was forlorn, and needed petting, since Jo persisted in being stonyhearted.  She ought to have made an effort and tried to love him.  It couldn’t be very hard, many people would be proud and glad to have such a dear boy care for them.  But Jo never would act like other girls, so there was nothing to do but be very kind and treat him like a brother.

If all brothers were treated as well as Laurie was at this period, they would be a much happier race of beings than they are.  Amy never lectured now.  She asked his opinion on all subjects, she was interested in everything he did, made charming little presents for him, and sent him two letters a week, full of lively gossip, sisterly confidences, and captivating sketches of the lovely scenes about her.  As few brothers are complimented by having their letters carried about in their sister’s pockets, read and reread diligently, cried over when short, kissed when long, and treasured carefully, we will not hint that Amy did any of these fond and foolish things.  But she certainly did grow a little pale and pensive that spring, lost much of her relish for society, and went out sketching alone a good deal.  She never had much to show when she came home, but was studying nature, I dare say, while she sat for hours, with her hands folded, on the terrace at Valrosa, or absently sketched any fancy that occurred to her, a stalwart knight carved on a tomb, a young man asleep in the grass, with his hat over his eyes, or a curly haired girl in gorgeous array, promenading down a ballroom on the arm of a tall gentleman, both faces being left a blur according to the last fashion in art, which was safe but not altogether satisfactory.

Her aunt thought that she regretted her answer to Fred, and finding denials useless and explanations impossible, Amy left her to think what she liked, taking care that Laurie should know that Fred had gone to Egypt.  That was all, but he understood it, and looked relieved, as he said to himself, with a venerable air . . .