“Yes, mother; and when I go home I mean to have a corner in the big closet to put my books, and the copy of that picture which I’ve tried to make. The woman’s face is not good—it’s too beautiful for me to draw—but the baby is done better, and I love it very much. I like to think He was a little child once, for then I don’t seem so far away, and that helps me.”
As Amy pointed to the smiling Christ-child on his mother’s knee, Mrs. March saw something on the lifted hand that made her smile. She said nothing, but Amy understood the look, and, after a minute’s pause, she added gravely—
“I wanted to speak to you about this, but I forgot it. Aunt gave me the ring today; she called me to her and kissed me, and put it on my finger, and said I was a credit to her, and she’d like to keep me always. She gave that funny guard to keep the turquoise on, as it’s too big. I’d like to wear them, mother; can I?”
“They are very pretty, but I think you’re rather too young for such ornaments, Amy,” said Mrs. March, looking at the plump little hand, with the band of sky-blue stones on the forefinger, and the quaint guard, formed of two tiny, golden hands clasped together.
“I’ll try not to be vain,” said Amy. “I don’t think I like it only because it’s so pretty; but I want to wear it as the girl in the story wore her bracelet, to remind me of something.”
“Do you mean Aunt March?” asked her mother, laughing.
“No, to remind me not to be selfish.” Amy looked so earnest and sincere about it, that her mother stopped laughing, and listened respectfully to the little plan.
“I’ve thought a great deal lately about my ‘bundle of naughties,’ and being selfish is the largest one in it; so I’m going to try hard to cure it, if I