Laurie had always suspected—no, knew—that his gentle neighbor was made of far sterner stuff than anyone suspected, but he had never seen it more confirmed than when he burst in the kitchen moments later, and found Beth calmly wrapping up their leftover bread-and-butter in a bit of wax paper.

"Beth—"

"You'll want to take this home, won't you, Laurie?" Her voice was so quiet he could barely hear her, but it was steady—and when he bent over her, he could see that the grey-blue eyes were dry. "And the herring. Please do—no one else will eat it, and the butter will turn soon."

"I—" he took the little wax-paper parcel from her, thrust it into his pocket. It would be dreadfully squashed later, but neither of them cared. "Beth. I heard—"

"I'm tired, Laurie," she cut in, interrupting him for perhaps the first time in her life. He saw the pointed chin- Lord, how thin her face was!- tremble just a fraction; and at that moment he could have killed Ned Moffat and pleasured in it. "I think…I think I shall retire now. I'll see you another time, yes?"

"Beth—"

"Please, Laurie." Her voice sounded strained, though she maintained her dignity. He straightened up slowly, knowing how important it was for her to keep it, and made as if to go.

"Tomorrow?" he asked gently.

"Yes, please." The look she gave him was so unwittingly grateful that he was moved; impulsively, he bent, kissed her on one pale cheek. Her skin was smooth and cool against his lips; he reached forward, brushed the spot with his knuckles. Depite her discomfort he was pleased to see color bloom there, and his mouth curved upward.

"Please rest, Bethy."

"I will, Laurie." She folded her slim hands in an unconcious imitation of her mother, lifted her lips into a smile of sorts, then fixed her eyes on him, watched him leave the kitchen.

Her smile didn't falter until the door closed.

When he was gone, Beth's shoulders slumped forward; and suddenly exhausted, she leaned hard against the kitchen table. Her heart-beat drummed in her ears, with the queer little flutters that often came when she was overexcited; she could hear Marmee's voice in the sitting room, the gentle rise and fall. Thier guests would be leaving soon, and Marmee would want-

But, she couldn't see her like this, Beth said to herself, biting her lip hard. She was a woman now, not a girl- she WOULD not cry. She closed her eyes, concentrated on breathing, on quieting her thudding heart.

Useless? Was that truly how she was seen? Was she nothing but a burden to the family she'd wanted nothing more than to stay with forever?

There was untamed Jo, writing in wild New York; beautiful Amy, touring the Old World; gentle Meg, a wife and mother; and she-

Too well to be considered invalid, but too sick to be of any use. And she had just submitted to this illness- she hadn't even tried- had she...had she?

Wordlessly, Beth pushed out of the kitchen, uncaring of the guests, and fled upstairs to her room.

XXX

Laurie came to see her early the next day as she knew he would, and she was ready, seated at the wobbly secretary in Jo's old writing room, papers spread all around her. She was fully dressed; excitement burned rich color into her cheeks, like the stain of an overambitious artist on the pale face of a Madonna. She looked up and met his concerned black eyes with a slight smile; then, with one of her shy gestures, she asked him to come and sit.

Heartened, Laurie did so.

"I'm glad you came," she said. When she spoke, her voice was quiet. "After yesterday-"

"Ned Moffat is a fool!" Laurie broke in heatedly.

Beth shook her head so violently that her shawl slipped off her shoulders. "No. No, Laurie. I'm afraid that he had- well, I saw his view."

"How-" Laurie sputtered.

"I fear I've been somewhat selfish." Beth's voie increased in volume not a bit, but at the sound of it Laurie quieted instantly. "I haven't tried, Laurie. Not as I should have."

"You've been ill, Beth!"

"And not doing much, except sitting and letting poke at me, and letting everyone wait on me hand and foot-" her voice became strangled, but she swallowed hard. Her hands were shaking, but she lifted them long enough to place a couple of the papers in his hand. "Look, Laurie."

He did, turning them over; they were circulars. Pamphlets. For doctors. Specialtists, heart New York, Hartford, Boston...

She inhaled, began to speak again very rapidly. "When Jo was here, she used to send for these. She would read them over, show them to Marmee, Father...she was saving to pay for one if needed. She wanted me to go, to be examined, to be...looked at."

"Very like Jo," Laurie said soberly, wondering where this was going. He had much to say, but Beth so rarely confided in him that he wanted her to complete her thoughts.

"I...I told her not to." Here a shadow passed over Beth's small face; and Laurie stood, moved to perch on the desk where he could hear her better. "I didn't want to go, to leave, to be poked and prodded and tried by...strangers, to be treated, and then if it didn't work-" her voice broke then, and she inhaled sharply before continuing, as if bolstering herself to go on. "Soon after she left for New York. I never was willing to fight, Laurie. Not the way I should have. I just wanted to sit home and be comfortable and not be of any trouble to anyone, but..."

She trailed off here, and the large eyes grew very full; her fingers were tangling in her skirt, knotting the fabric, wrinkling it dreadfully. Laurie's hand came down then, large and brown; it covered both of hers completely, stilled them. "Beth," Laurie said; his voice was low now, almost as much as hers. "What do you want to do?"

In thaat moment Beth knew no elaborate pretenses were needed; she shot him a grateful look, and the tension leaked from her thin frame. "I want to see one of them. A...specialist," she said with enough hesitancy to show how foreign she found the idea. "I want to...I want to see if anything can be done for me...for this," she finished, gesturing to herself with a thin hand.

Silence reigned in the small dusty room for a full moment; then Laurie shifted, reaching down and tilting Beth's chin up. "You're not useless, Beth."

Silence again, save for a bird outside; then Beth blinked, turned away from him, color suffusing her pale cheeks. "I know I'm not," she replied. "But...I want to figure out what I am, instead."

The two young people sat worslessly again for some time, Laure rustling thrrough the papers. Jo had been very tidy with this where she was disorganized in other ways; they had been clipped by region, by price, and certian claims had been underlined, circled in heavy black. Laurie sighed heavily and bit his lip.

"Beth-" he said, and for once his voice wasn't carefully gentle- it was calm, matter-of-fact. "I will need to speak to Dr. Bangs and my grandfather on this, to see if he can offer a recommendation, if he knows their work. If you are determined to do this-" and here, his eyes rested on her steadily- "you must have the best. There are some...unsundry characters who might take advantage. We wish to avoid them."

"All right," Beth said meekly.

"I will...research this and let you know. Perhaps," and the young man stood, towering over her. "...perhaps we had better not-"

"Not tell Father or Marmee till we know more," Beth completed for him. He blinked in surprise; he'd never known little Beth to keepa a secret from her mother or father; but then again, lately they all seemed hugely changed. When he looked back down at Beth, she'd drawn her shawl back round her neck, and was clutching it round her throat with a hand that was nearly transparent in its paleness, it's thiness. She thanked him with a look.

"I'll hurry," said Laurie past a sudden lump in his throat, and went off to do her bidding.