“Good!  Then I shall rest happy, and be sure that thou givest me all.  I haf waited so long, I am grown selfish, as thou wilt find, Professorin.”

“I like that,” cried Jo, delighted with her new name.  “Now tell me what brought you, at last, just when I wanted you?”

“This,” and Mr. Bhaer took a little worn paper out of his waistcoat pocket.

Jo unfolded it, and looked much abashed, for it was one of her own contributions to a paper that paid for poetry, which accounted for her sending it an occasional attempt.

“How could that bring you?” she asked, wondering what he meant.

“I found it by chance.  I knew it by the names and the initials, and in it there was one little verse that seemed to call me.  Read and find him.  I will see that you go not in the wet.”

    IN THE GARRET

    Four little chests all in a row,
    Dim with dust, and worn by time,
    All fashioned and filled, long ago,
    By children now in their prime. 
    Four little keys hung side by side,
    With faded ribbons, brave and gay
    When fastened there, with childish pride,
    Long ago, on a rainy day. 
    Four little names, one on each lid,
    Carved out by a boyish hand,
    And underneath there lieth hid
    Histories of the happy band
    Once playing here, and pausing oft
    To hear the sweet refrain,
    That came and went on the roof aloft,
    In the falling summer rain.

    “Meg” on the first lid, smooth and fair. 
    I look in with loving eyes,
    For folded here, with well-known care,
    A goodly gathering lies,
    The record of a peaceful life—­
    Gifts to gentle child and girl,
    A bridal gown, lines to a wife,
    A tiny shoe, a baby curl. 
    No toys in this first chest remain,
    For all are carried away,
    In their old age, to join again
    In another small Meg’s play. 
    Ah, happy mother!  Well I know
    You hear, like a sweet refrain,
    Lullabies ever soft and low
    In the falling summer rain.

    “Jo” on the next lid, scratched and worn,
    And within a motley store
    Of headless dolls, of schoolbooks torn,
    Birds and beasts that speak no more,
    Spoils brought home from the fairy ground
    Only trod by youthful feet,
    Dreams of a future never found,
    Memories of a past still sweet,
    Half-writ poems, stories wild,
    April letters, warm and cold,
    Diaries of a wilful child,
    Hints of a woman early old,
    A woman in a lonely home,
    Hearing, like a sad refrain—­
    “Be worthy, love, and love will come,”
    In the falling summer rain.

    My Beth! the dust is always swept
    From the lid that bears your name,
    As if by loving eyes that wept,
    By careful hands that often came. 
    Death canonized for us one