Jo couldn’t even lose her heart in a decorous manner, but sternly tried to quench her feelings; and, failing to do so, led a somewhat agitated life. She was mortally afraid of being laughed at for surrendering, after her many and vehement declarations of independence. Laurie was her especial dread; but, thanks to the new manager, he behaved with praiseworthy propriety, never called Mr. Bhaer “a capital old fellow” in public, never alluded, in the remotest manner, to Jo’s improved appearance, or expressed the least surprise at seeing the Professor’s hat on the Marches’ hall-table nearly every evening. But he exulted in private and longed for the time to come when he could give Jo a piece of plate, with a bear and a ragged staff on it as an appropriate coat-of-arms.
For a fortnight, the Professor came and went with lover-like regularity; then he stayed away for three whole days, and made no sign—a proceeding which caused everybody to look sober, and Jo to become pensive, at first, and then—alas for romance!—very cross.
“Disgusted, I dare say, and gone home as suddenly as he came. It’s nothing to me, of course; but I should think he would have come and bid us goodbye, like a gentleman,” she said to herself, with a despairing look at the gate, as she put on her things for the customary walk, one dull afternoon.
“You’d better take the little umbrella, dear; it looks like rain,” said her mother, observing that she had on her new bonnet, but not alluding to the fact.
“Yes, Marmee; do you want anything in town? I’ve got to run in and get some paper,” returned Jo, pulling out the bow under her chin before the glass as an excuse for not looking at her mother.
“Yes; I want some twilled silesia, a paper of number nine needles, and two yards of narrow lavender ribbon. Have you got your thick boots on, and something warm under your cloak?”