Jo's face was sturdy when she came into the room that evening. There was stormy displeasure in every line of it; her lips were set, her eyes unusually bright and she brought a gust of icy air with her, as if she had swept through a whirlwind of her own making.

"I've made a dreadful mistake and I don't know how I ever shall forgive myself," she said grimly, flinging down her bonnet. Meg looked up in alarm. "Jo! What is it?"

"I've lost the story—my only copy! I dashed out in such a hurry that the wind carried it straight from my hands. I chased it halfway down the street, but it flew faster than I could run. A boy caught one page and waved it at me as if mocking my idiocy. And then—then it vanished round the corner."

She threw herself into a chair, shaking with anger and humiliation. "But surely," Meg ventured softly, "another copy—?" "There isn't another!" Jo cried. "You know how long I worked on it. Every spare moment for months. And now it's gone through my foolish carelessness." A silence followed—heavy, sympathetic.

"Perhaps," Meg offered, "there is a reason things happen so. Maybe losing it will make the next one better?" Jo gave a short, almost bitter laugh. "Reason? I see none. Only that my temper ruins more than it mends. I stampede through life like a runaway horse and blame the stones for tripping me. But this time—this time—I alone am to blame."

Meg placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, but Jo did not lift her head. She sat rigid, as though the weight of her own expectation had finally fallen upon her.