Where are our bundles? Mine is dishes and dusters, and envying girls with nice pianos, and being afraid of people. What shall we do about that? It was uninteresting sewing, but tonight no one grumbled. At nine they stopped work, and sang, as usual, before they went to bed. Meg had a voice like a flute, and she and her mother led the little choir. They had always done this from the time they could lisp. The first sound in the morning was her voice as she went about the house singing like a lark, and the last sound at night was the same cheery sound, for the girls never grew too old for that familiar lullaby. No stockings hung at the fireplace, and for a moment she felt as much disappointed as she did long ago, when her little sock fell down because it was crammed so full of goodies. A greencovered book appeared, with the same picture inside, and a few words written by their mother, which made their one present very precious in their eyes. Jo put her arm round her and, leaning cheek to cheek, read also, with the quiet expression so seldom seen on her restless face. Hide the basket, quick! Amy came in hastily, and looked rather abashed when she saw her sisters all waiting for her. Thank you for our books. Not far away from here lies a poor woman with a little newborn baby. Six children are huddled into one bed to keep from freezing, for they have no fire. There is nothing to eat over there, and the oldest boy came to tell me they were suffering hunger and cold. Meg was already covering the buckwheats, and piling the bread into one big plate. March, smiling as if satisfied.