“Do you envy her, Meg?” said Laurie.
“I’m afraid I do.”
“I’m glad of it!” muttered Jo, tying on her hat with a jerk.
“Why?” asked Meg, looking surprised.
“Because if you care much about riches, you will never go and marry a poor man,” said Jo, frowning at Laurie, who was mutely warning her to mind what she said.
“I shall never ‘ go and marry’ anyone,” observed Meg, walking on with great dignity, while the others followed, laughing, whispering, skipping stones, and “behaving like children,” as Meg said to herself, though she might have been tempted to join them if she had not had her best dress on.
For a week or two, Jo behaved so queerly that her sisters were quite bewildered. She rushed to the door when the postman rang; was rude to Mr. Brooke whenever they met; would sit looking at Meg with a woebegone face, occasionally jumping up to shake, and then to kiss her, in a very mysterious manner; Laurie and she were always making signs to one another, and talking about “Spread Eagles,” till the girls declared they had both lost their wits. On the second Saturday after Jo got out of the window, Meg, as she sat sewing at her window, was scandalized by the sight of Laurie chasing Jo all over the garden, and finally capturing her in Amy’s bower. What went on there, Meg could not see; but shrieks of laughter were heard, followed by the murmur of voices and a great flapping of newspapers.