A few weeks passed and a small friendship formed between Professor Bhaer and Jo. She often borrowed books from him, and then neglected to return them. By the next month, she had a stack of books in her room that weren't even hers, they were his. One evening, after dinner, he approached her.
"Miss March, I am looking for a book of mine. Do you happen to know where it might be?" He asked.
"I might've seen it somewhere. Which book?"
"The French poetry. It's the one with the red cover." He said, describing it. Jo's cheeks turned pink, for she knew exactly where it was.
"Yes, Professor, I know where it is. I'll go get it for you." She said and darted off to her room before he could ask any questions. Several minutes later, she stood in the doorway of Professor Bhaer's room. In her arms was a large stack of ten or eleven books. Her grey eyes could barely see over the top of the books. It was a good thing, for his slightly amused face would have made her blush. She never used to blush, but she seemed to always be fighting the tendency to when she was with him.
"Miss March!" He said, trying not to laugh. He quickly took some of the books from arms and began to put them on a shelf. "You liked these books, yes?"
"Oh yes! They were splendid! All of them seemed so… smart." She shook her head, trying to think of a better word.
"Scholarly? Pedantic? Erudite?" He offered. She smiled brightly, making her eyes light up with interest.
"Yes! Wonderful! Thank you for those wonderful words."
"Of course. Which book was your favorite?" He asked as she helped him put the books away.
"The French poetry." She admitted. "It was beautiful. Enlightening, really."
"Ah. Keep it, if you like." He said thoughtfully, knowing she would take care of it better than he.
"Really? Oh, I couldn't possibly…"
"Go ahead, Miss March. It is yours." He smiled. The brightness in her eyes transformed into some sort of joyful gratefulness.
"Thank you, Professor Bhaer. It means a lot." She smiled. And she was right. It did mean a lot. In her time in New York so far, she'd felt so alone and detached from home. But because of this small book he'd given to her, she felt less lonely. She had a friend now.
As the next week went by, she began to go to him for writing advice. For a man who only knew English as a second language, he knew a lot of interesting words that she didn't. He even taught her a smattering of German once in awhile. She frequently stopped by his room to show him whatever she might have been working on. It was good for her, to be working and to have a friend. She didn't worry as much about how things were at home. She was happy, much happier than she had been when she left Massachusetts.