Based on the quote below from the play version of the book that I was in. Thanks and enjoy.
"I had a granddaughter once, with eyes like that. God bless you, Miss Beth Marge."
Beth would visit the 'mansion of bliss' – as Meg called it – almost every day now. She'd quietly slip out of the house, – usually only saying a meek 'goodbye' to Jo – silently put on her hood to keep warm, and slink ever so carefully out from Meg's garden and would soon find herself on the other side of the Marge's swinging, white garden gate. Laurie would leave the door unlocked, knowing she'd come, so she could creep into the more-then-large house without a struggle. This one day, however, was a little different.
"Beth…" said Jo, only slightly looking up from her book. Beth, at this very moment, was about halfway out the door. "Beth, won't you want some company? Let me come with you, please…" she stood up as the younger girl tried to open her mouth in protest…but nothing came out, per usual. "Teddy 'll be glad I've come by, anyway…" she said as the sister put her own hood on.
"Is – is he expecting you?" Beth stammered.
"No," said Jo, walking out the door. "But he won't mind. It is Teddy we're talking about." Beth thought that no matter what it was, Laurie would be positively ecstatic to see her closest sister. Jo didn't feel the same, she knew, but sometimes…Beth wished she did. They were both rough and wild in all the right ways, they both had an incurable craving for freedom…but even so, that was simply why they could never be together. They'd both 'rebel if they were mated for life', like her mother had said.
"I'm sure he'll be very happy to see you," Beth said as the two sisters passed through the swinging old gate. They slipped through the door and into the Laurence house, as Jo called out with her head thrown back:
"Teddy! Teddy!" The boy did not yet appear, so Jo yelled out with a laugh, "oh, Theodore!" and Laurie showed up at once.
"Jo," he embraced Beth's sister. "I'm so glad you've come! Come with me now, let's go the library, shall we?"
The two stepped out as they said, and Beth crept into the drawing room. Once there, she couldn't help but smile at the sight of the beautiful, old grand piano – it was aged, but still with all it's years behind it, the piano was a stunning sight, only getting more gorgeous with age…much like that of Mr. Laurence, the kind old gentleman himself.
And so the girl sat and played, and it was more then something beautiful. Beth never knew, in all her fleeting days, the Mr. Laurence would stay outside the drawing room door for all the hours in which the girl who play, listening with glittering awe. The second-youngest Marge girl had a heart of gold, he knew, and she disserved the very best that he could provide for her. James knew the girl was dying. He'd seen it more then his fair share of times. Scarlet fever – that dreadful sickness is nothing short of terrible. It kills the young, the good, so slowly…it makes those who should never have to suffer to do just that in the worst way there could be. Why must all the good leave him so young? The kind old gentleman wondered, but could not come up with an answer.
When Mr. Laurence first saw the Marge girl, he was shocked. Stunned. It nearly tore the kind old gentleman to tears. Eye like that. Oh, God. Eyes like that.
"And you," he murmured to her that day. "You're Beth, the musical one. Right?"
"Yes, good sir," she whispered, as if afraid to speak up. "I love it so dearly, but I can hardly ever practice at home…"
"Why don't you come by some time?" Mr. James Laurence proposed. "The piano ought to stay in tune, you know."
"Oh, are you positive it's alright, sir?" She nearly stuttered. "As long as no one would hear me…"
"Of course," he answered. "Come around any time; drum around a bit. And no one would hear you, my dear. Laurie's usually out, and the servants never enter the drawing room past nine."
"And yourself?" Beth asked.
"I'm shut up in my office, myself," Lie. Lie. Lie. "I promise you, dear girl, no one will hear a thing."
"Oh, thank you, kind sir!"
It was nothing short of a miracle how much she looked like his Grace. Her eyes – those eyes, they belonged to his little granddaughter. His little Gracie. She was Beth's age when the second-youngest Marge girl's sickness took her life, too – she was so young; she was so pure. She was never mean, she never lied. His Gracie didn't deserve to be taken from him so leave him so early, to suffer like she did. Beth Marge didn't, either. No one did. But especially not so young, so pure little girls with eyes like that.
And so eventually Beth Marge's music never filled his old house, nor satisfied his eardrums. In her finale days James would visit her at her bedside, and hold her hand softly. The kind old gentleman would tell her about his Grace, his little Gracie, and her eyes like that.
"Like mine?" Beth asked weakly, those eyes flickering open and closed.
"Just like yours, my dear Beth."
And sooner rather then latter, those eyes stopped flickering. They remained now forever closed, and James was sure of but one thing.
He would never see eyes like that again.