Meg had told her adventures gayly, and said over and over what a charming time she had had; but something still seemed to weigh upon her spirits, and, when the younger girls were gone to bed, she sat thoughtfully staring at the fire, saying little, and looking worried. As the clock struck nine, and Jo proposed bed, Meg suddenly left her chair, and, taking Beth’s stool, leaned her elbows on her mother’s knee, saying bravely—
“Marmee, I want to ’fess.”
“I thought so; what is it, dear?”
“Shall I go away?” asked Jo discreetly.
“Of course not; don’t I always tell you everything? I was ashamed to speak of it before the children, but I want you to know all the dreadful things I did at the Moffat’s.”
“We are prepared,” said Mrs. March, smiling, but looking a little anxious.
“I told you they dressed me up, but I didn’t tell you that they powdered and squeezed and frizzled, and made me look like a fashion-plate. Laurie thought I wasn’t proper; I know he did, though he didn’t say so, and one man called me ‘a doll.’ I knew it was silly, but they flattered me, and said I was a beauty, and quantities of nonsense, so I let them make a fool of me.”
“Is that all?” asked Jo, as Mrs. March looked silently at the downcast face of her pretty daughter, and could not find it in her heart to blame her little follies.
“No; I drank champagne and romped and tried to flirt, and was altogether abominable,” said Meg self-reproachfully.
“There is something more, I think;” and Mrs. March smoothed the soft cheek, which suddenly grew rosy, as Meg answered slowly—