“It isn’t.  I haven’t got it, don’t know where it is now, and don’t care.”

“You know something about it, and you’d better tell at once, or I’ll make you.”  And Jo gave her a slight shake.

“Scold as much as you like, you’ll never see your silly old book again,” cried Amy, getting excited in her turn.

“Why not?”

“I burned it up.”

“What!  My little book I was so fond of, and worked over, and meant to finish before Father got home?  Have you really burned it?” said Jo, turning very pale, while her eyes kindled and her hands clutched Amy nervously.

“Yes, I did!  I told you I’d make you pay for being so cross yesterday, and I have, so . . .”

Amy got no farther, for Jo’s hot temper mastered her, and she shook Amy till her teeth chattered in her head, crying in a passion of grief and anger . . .

“You wicked, wicked girl!  I never can write it again, and I’ll never forgive you as long as I live.”

Meg flew to rescue Amy, and Beth to pacify Jo, but Jo was quite beside herself, and with a parting box on her sister’s ear, she rushed out of the room up to the old sofa in the garret, and finished her fight alone.

The storm cleared up below, for Mrs. March came home, and, having heard the story, soon brought Amy to a sense of the wrong she had done her sister.  Jo’s book was the pride of her heart, and was regarded by her family as a literary sprout of great promise.  It was only half a dozen little fairy tales, but Jo had worked over them patiently, putting her whole heart into her work, hoping to make something good enough to print.  She had just copied them with great care, and had destroyed the old manuscript, so that Amy’s bonfire had consumed the loving work of several years.  It seemed a small loss to others, but to Jo it was a dreadful calamity, and she felt that it never could be made up to her.  Beth mourned as for a departed kitten, and Meg refused to defend her pet.  Mrs. March looked grave and grieved, and Amy felt that no one would love her till she had asked pardon for the act which she now regretted more than any of them.

When the tea bell rang, Jo appeared, looking so grim and unapproachable that it took all Amy’s courage to say meekly . . .

“Please forgive me, Jo.  I’m very, very sorry.”

“I never shall forgive you,” was Jo’s stern answer, and from that moment she ignored Amy entirely.

No one spoke of the great trouble, not even Mrs. March, for all had learned by experience that when Jo was in that mood words were wasted, and the wisest course was to wait till some little accident, or her own generous nature, softened Jo’s resentment and healed the breach.  It was not a happy evening, for though they sewed as usual, while their mother read aloud from Bremer, Scott, or Edgeworth, something was wanting, and the sweet home peace was disturbed.  They felt this most when singing time came, for Beth could only play, Jo stood dumb as a stone, and Amy broke down, so Meg and Mother sang alone.  But in spite of their efforts to be as cheery as larks, the flutelike voices did not seem to chord as well as usual, and all felt out of tune.