In all her life Josephine March had never been rendered speechless. She was by nature a talker, given to verbally getting herself out of her many, many scrapes. However, this was one scrape she found herself unable to avoid; this was the day Jo met her match.

It was the night of her honeymoon.

Uncertainly, she looked over at her husband and smiled, trying to look cool and calm and collected, like the German girls one so often saw in paintings or books. Her own Professor Bhaer returned the smile a little crookedly, and she saw him drum his fingers lightly on his knee, a flush glowing beneath his beard. He reached across the little table at which they sat and took her hand.

"You tremble, mein Jo."

Josephine Bhaer started, and was ashamed of the heat she felt flaring in her cheeks. What a fool she was, blushing and cooing over her husband like a niminy-piminy chit in a bad novel! For heaven's sake, it was only Fritz.

"Do I? I-I was just thinking, Freidrich,"

Gaining a little courage, he cupped a hand around his pale bride's chin and lifted her face to look at his. Her eyes, usually so quick and sharp, were nearly frightened; in a very soft tone, he murmured:

"What was thou thinking about, Professorin?"

Jo did not trust herself to answer this; so, rather than give an honest reply, she heard herself gabble something vague about a book she'd been reading. Freiderich Bhaer, being no fool, simply frowned and raised his eyebrows, saying:

"Funny, such trembles coming from that."

Again, Jo felt herself flush, and looked away, berating herself for being such a fool. Why couldn't she be a trump and face her challenges bravely? Why did she have to act like a sentimental, spineless little schoolgirl—and why tonight, of all nights? Heartily ashamed, she said, in a much gentler tone than she usually used:

"I-I'm so sorry, Fritz; I'm being a goose."

Smiling, he stroked her cheek and replied:

"Thou are a beautiful goose, then, Mrs. Bhaer."

He stooped to kiss her, and, after a few moments, lifted her long, lean self into his arms and carried her, as a husband should, onto the bed. Jo smiled and lightly caressed the side of his face, her eyes alight.

"I love you, Fritz."

He pressed his face to her neck and whispered:

"I haf so much love to gif thee, Mrs. Bhaer—if thou will let me."

Jo gave a most unromantic sneeze, and said, with a touch of her old boyishness:

"Well, if you can stand me, you may do what you like."

"That, my Jo," he remonstrated softly, wrapping his arms around her waist, "is a dangerous thing to tell a man like myself."

"My goodness!" gasped poor, shaky Jo, as he began to kiss her a little more deeply. "What am I going to do with this blasted dress?"

"I suggest thou remove it," replied her husband, suiting his actions to his words. Surveying her, rumpled and not at all the seductive bride so usually portrayed, he said quite honestly:

"It is better off, I think."

He pressed his mouth to her throat, and, once again, Jo sneezed.

"Does thou haf a cold, mein jewel?" he asked anxiously, his words a little encumbered by his amours. A crimson-cheeked, breathless Jo shook her tawny head, saying:

"N-no, it's just worry, I think."

"Thou worry unduly," her husband assured her, easing her into a lying position. "My good, lovely Jo."

And here the very affectionate professor wound his wife's arms around his neck, and proceeded to kiss her until she forgot to worry, and made a soft, rather urgent noise in the back of her throat.

"Fritz," she breathed, pulling him nearer to her. "Oh, heavens…"

"I haf waited so long for this, my professorin," he told her, kissing her hair, her eyes, her mouth, her collar. "I love thee so."

Perhaps Jo replied, perhaps she didn't—in either case, as her hands moved to her husband's coat and then to his trousers, the intent was perfectly clear, and neither Mr. nor Mrs. Bhaer was heard from for the remainder of the night.