“Not a word, unless you let me come in my old place, and promise not to barricade.”
Jo laughed at that as she had not done for many a long day, and patted the sofa invitingly, as she said, in a cordial tone—
“The old pillow is up garret, and we don’t need it now; so, come and ’fess, Teddy.”
“How good it sounds to hear you say ‘Teddy’! No one ever calls me that but you;” and Laurie sat down, with an air of great content.
“What does Amy call you?”
“My lord.”
“That’s like her. Well, you look it;” and Jo’s eyes plainly betrayed that she found her boy comelier than ever.
The pillow was gone, but there was a barricade, nevertheless—a natural one, raised by time, absence, and change of heart. Both felt it, and for a minute looked at one another as if that invisible barrier cast a little shadow over them. It was gone directly, however, for Laurie said, with a vain attempt at dignity—
“Don’t I look like a married man and the head of a family?”
“Not a bit, and you never will. You’ve grown bigger and bonnier, but you are the same scapegrace as ever.”
“Now, really, Jo, you ought to treat me with more respect,” began Laurie, who enjoyed it all immensely.
“How can I, when the mere idea of you, married and settled, is so irresistibly funny that I can’t keep sober!” answered Jo, smiling all over