“I haven’t got any,” began Jo, but stopped suddenly, remembering that she had.
“You know you have—you can’t hide anything; so up and ’fess, or I won’t tell,” cried Laurie.
“Is your secret a nice one?”
“Oh, isn’t it! all about people you know, and such fun! You ought to hear it, and I’ve been aching to tell it this long time. Come, you begin.”
“You’ll not say anything about it at home, will you?”
“Not a word.”
“And you won’t tease me in private?”
“I never tease.”
“Yes, you do; you get everything you want out of people. I don’t know how you do it, but you are a born wheedler.”
“Thank you; fire away.”
“Well, I’ve left two stories with a newspaper man, and he’s to give his answer next week,” whispered Jo, in her confidant’s ear.
“Hurrah for Miss March, the celebrated American authoress!” cried Laurie, throwing up his hat and catching it again, to the great delight of two ducks, four cats, five hens, and half a dozen Irish children; for they were out of the city now.
“Hush! It won’t come to anything, I dare say; but I couldn’t rest till I had tried, and I said nothing about it, because I didn’t want anyone else to be disappointed.”