Secrets

           Jowasverybusyinthegarret,fortheOctoberdaysbegantogrowchilly,andtheafternoonswereshort.Fortwoorthreehoursthesunlaywarmlyinthehighwindow,showingJoseatedontheoldsofa,writingbusily,withherpapersspreadoutuponatrunkbeforeher,whileScrabble,thepetrat,promenadedthebeamsoverhead,accompaniedbyhisoldestson,afineyoungfellow,whowasevidentlyveryproudofhiswhiskers.Quiteabsorbedinherwork,Joscribbledawaytillthelastpagewasfilled,whenshesignedhernamewithaflourishandthrewdownherpen,exclaiming...

           "There,I’vedonemybest!Ifthiswon’tsuitIshallhavetowaittillIcandobetter."

           Lyingbackonthesofa,shereadthemanuscriptcarefullythrough,makingdasheshereandthere,andputtinginmanyexclamationpoints,whichlookedlikelittleballoons.Thenshetieditupwithasmartredribbon,andsataminutelookingatitwithasober,wistfulexpression,whichplainlyshowedhowearnestherworkhadbeen.Jo’sdeskupherewasanoldtinkitchenwhichhungagainstthewall.Initshekeptherpapers,andafewbooks,safelyshutawayfromScrabble,who,beinglikewiseofaliteraryturn,wasfondofmakingacirculatinglibraryofsuchbooksaswereleftinhiswaybyeatingtheleaves.FromthistinreceptacleJoproducedanothermanuscript,andputtingbothinherpocket,creptquietlydownstairs,leavingherfriendstonibbleonherpensandtasteherink.