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"
Yes
,
that
’
s
the
best
place
for
such
inflammable
nonsense
.
I
’
d
better
burn
the
house
down
,
I
suppose
,
than
let
other
people
blow
themselves
up
with
my
gunpowder
,
"
she
thought
as
she
watched
the
Demon
of
the
Jura
whisk
away
,
a
little
black
cinder
with
fiery
eyes
.
But
when
nothing
remained
of
all
her
three
month
’
s
work
except
a
heap
of
ashes
and
the
money
in
her
lap
,
Jo
looked
sober
,
as
she
sat
on
the
floor
,
wondering
what
she
ought
to
do
about
her
wages
.
"
I
think
I
haven
’
t
done
much
harm
yet
,
and
may
keep
this
to
pay
for
my
time
,
"
she
said
,
after
a
long
meditation
,
adding
impatiently
,
"
I
almost
wish
I
hadn
’
t
any
conscience
,
it
’
s
so
inconvenient
.
If
I
didn
’
t
care
about
doing
right
,
and
didn
’
t
feel
uncomfortable
when
doing
wrong
,
I
should
get
on
capitally
.
I
can
’
t
help
wishing
sometimes
,
that
Mother
and
Father
hadn
’
t
been
so
particular
about
such
things
.
"
Ah
,
Jo
,
instead
of
wishing
that
,
thank
God
that
‘
Father
and
Mother
were
particular
’
,
and
pity
from
your
heart
those
who
have
no
such
guardians
to
hedge
them
round
with
principles
which
may
seem
like
prison
walls
to
impatient
youth
,
but
which
will
prove
sure
foundations
to
build
character
upon
in
womanhood
.
Jo
wrote
no
more
sensational
stories
,
deciding
that
the
money
did
not
pay
for
her
share
of
the
sensation
,
but
going
to
the
other
extreme
,
as
is
the
way
with
people
of
her
stamp
,
she
took
a
course
of
Mrs
.
Sherwood
,
Miss
Edgeworth
,
and
Hannah
More
,
and
then
produced
a
tale
which
might
have
been
more
properly
called
an
essay
or
a
sermon
,
so
intensely
moral
was
it
.
She
had
her
doubts
about
it
from
the
beginning
,
for
her
lively
fancy
and
girlish
romance
felt
as
ill
at
ease
in
the
new
style
as
she
would
have
done
masquerading
in
the
stiff
and
cumbrous
costume
of
the
last
century
.
She
sent
this
didactic
gem
to
several
markets
,
but
it
found
no
purchaser
,
and
she
was
inclined
to
agree
with
Mr
.
Dashwood
that
morals
didn
’
t
sell
.
Then
she
tried
a
child
’
s
story
,
which
she
could
easily
have
disposed
of
if
she
had
not
been
mercenary
enough
to
demand
filthy
lucre
for
it
.
The
only
person
who
offered
enough
to
make
it
worth
her
while
to
try
juvenile
literature
was
a
worthy
gentleman
who
felt
it
his
mission
to
convert
all
the
world
to
his
particular
belief
.
But
much
as
she
liked
to
write
for
children
,
Jo
could
not
consent
to
depict
all
her
naughty
boys
as
being
eaten
by
bears
or
tossed
by
mad
bulls
because
they
did
not
go
to
a
particular
Sabbath
school
,
nor
all
the
good
infants
who
did
go
as
rewarded
by
every
kind
of
bliss
,
from
gilded
gingerbread
to
escorts
of
angels
when
they
departed
this
life
with
psalms
or
sermons
on
their
lisping
tongues
.
So
nothing
came
of
these
trials
,
and
Jo
corked
up
her
inkstand
,
and
said
in
a
fit
of
very
wholesome
humility
.
.
.
"
I
don
’
t
know
anything
.
I
’
ll
wait
until
I
do
before
I
try
again
,
and
meantime
,
‘
sweep
mud
in
the
street
’
if
I
can
’
t
do
better
,
that
’
s
honest
,
at
least
.
"
Which
decision
proved
that
her
second
tumble
down
the
beanstalk
had
done
her
some
good
.
While
these
internal
revolutions
were
going
on
,
her
external
life
had
been
as
busy
and
uneventful
as
usual
,
and
if
she
sometimes
looked
serious
or
a
little
sad
no
one
observed
it
but
Professor
Bhaer
.
He
did
it
so
quietly
that
Jo
never
knew
he
was
watching
to
see
if
she
would
accept
and
profit
by
his
reproof
,
but
she
stood
the
test
,
and
he
was
satisfied
,
for
though
no
words
passed
between
them
,
he
knew
that
she
had
given
up
writing
.
Not
only
did
he
guess
it
by
the
fact
that
the
second
finger
of
her
right
hand
was
no
longer
inky
,
but
she
spent
her
evenings
downstairs
now
,
was
met
no
more
among
newspaper
offices
,
and
studied
with
a
dogged
patience
,
which
assured
him
that
she
was
bent
on
occupying
her
mind
with
something
useful
,
if
not
pleasant
.
He
helped
her
in
many
ways
,
proving
himself
a
true
friend
,
and
Jo
was
happy
,
for
while
her
pen
lay
idle
,
she
was
learning
other
lessons
besides
German
,
and
laying
a
foundation
for
the
sensation
story
of
her
own
life
.
