I watch the vines swirl across the wallpaper, wondering how I could ever have mistaken them for birds. I know I did during the worst of the fever, though my memories are fragmented. It's hard to know what was real and what wasn't. Of course I know some things weren't—Ahren would never be locked in a giant birdcage—but is he locked away somewhere else? The baby is dead—I remember that clearly—but what about Anna, Mary, and Alrich?

My sisters haven't mentioned the Hummel family at all, and I haven' t worked up the courage to ask. I feel quite certain they would tell me if they know that the little ones—or Anna who is close to my age—had gotten well. But I'm not certain my sisters realize the extent of my friendship with the Hummel family.

I am certain they do not know the extent of my feelings for the Hummel boy. There are many, many feelings in my heart right now: sadness for the whole family but grief for the look in Ahren's eye when Mr. Hummel blamed him for not being able to bring the doctor sooner. Fear for what did or may happen when the family must replace the broken window at the Tavern. Or if the children die.

My sisters have gone on and on about how good and sweet I am and how terrible they are, how they would deserve it if they grew sick after leaving me to all the chores and charity. Even Amy has written that she has realized how selfish she is and intends to give away many of her things when she returns.

I don't like it. I don't like my sisters calling themselves wretches and the truth is, I'm just as selfish as they are—I'm only quiet about it. It feels like my whole world has decided I am so good and sweet that I deserve to be treated with nothing except tender affection.

Of course I like it—the tender affection—but it confuses me. Because Ahren is dear and sweet and more selfless than anyone I know, and all he seems to get is contempt and blame, even from his own family.

But not from me. I feel as though I have nothing except tender affection toward Ahren, so much that it swells up and feels like my chest will burst, and it does no good because he's not here. He hasn't stopped by to ask about me at all. And I do hope that at least one person in his family has given him a kind word.

I don't want to think badly of Lotchen, especially when she was so tired and feeling so hopeless, but I can't get her voice out of my head, the way she called Ahren a coward for giving their father the moneybag because she didn't know that Mr. Hummel had threatened to break his arm if he didn't release it. She only berated him, pounding his shoulders and chest, and all that when his back was already bleeding from Mr. Hummel putting him through the window. She told Mary if they starved it was Ahren's fault. Mr. Hummel told them that he would have brought the doctor the day before had Ahren not interfered.

I want to convince myself that this was only a bad time and his family feels very sorry for their actions the way my sisters do and they're doing everything they can to make it up to him.

But I can't.

Because Ahren wasn't shocked. He was hurt. And angry and humiliated. But not surprised as I would be if my family flung such cruel words at me. He just bore it and then went to patch himself up alone.

And I wish I could think of a way to ask Jo to visit the Hummels so she can tell me if they little ones are well yet. If they've found a way to pay for the window, if Mr. Hummel has left to work a new job, if Ahren looks like he's been hurt. But I can't think of a way and she hasn't thought of going.

So I keep my thoughts to myself and pray silently that God will protect Ahren and give his father a job that will keep him away from his family. And to make the little ones well, and . . .

And then my prayer is interrupted by Meg bursting through my door, instead of creeping as she has been doing. Even Jo jumps, but Meg doesn't seem to notice.

"Beth! Jo! John sent letters about Father." She hands Jo one letter and keeps a much smaller one for herself.

We always let Jo open the letters connected to Father, though she has a hard time not tearing them. But today she slows enough to keep it in once piece, then makes up the lost time by a rapid skim of the contents, before she lets out a relieved sigh. "He says Father has taken a turn for the better! Mr. Brook expects that he will recover, but intends to stay a few more days to look after him! Jo flings the letter onto her desk, then rushes to give me a squeezing hug. "Oh, Beth! To think only days ago, we expected to lose both of you! It's all right. Everything is turning out all right. Oh, Meg, isn't it wonderful!"

We turn together toward Meg who is clutching her own letter. Her eyebrows are low and tight, her chest moving in ragged gasps. She looks anything but wonderful.

"Meg?" I ask.

Her eyes rise, fixing a solemn glare onto Jo. "How could you?" she whispers.

"How could I what?" Jo asks.

Meg slaps the letter onto the desk, standing in one smooth motion, but her eyes flood. Her voice shakes like she's trying to sound mature though she really wants to yell. "This is the most horrible, despicable prank you've ever played on me! It isn't funny! It isn't funny at all!"

"I've been nursing Beth for two weeks!" Jo cries. "Why would I be playing pranks as such a time as this?"

Meg swallows and the letter quivers in her hands. "You didn't send me a letter pretending to be John Brook, declaring your wish to marry me someday and asking if you had any hope at all?"

Jo grows quite pale, then flushes with outrage. "Of course I didn't! I can't think of anything worse than you marrying John Brook!"

"Well, someone did!" Meg's voice rises. "And it wasn't him!"

"How do you know he didn't send it?" I ask.

"Because this letter says so!" Meg's voice rises in both pitch and quiver before she buries her face in her hands, collapsing into the chair in sobs she's never managed during any of Jo's tragedies. Oh, I've never been so humiliated in my life!"

"Oh Meg," I say. "Did you answer him? Did you tell him yes?"

Meg only cries harder as Jo snatches up the smaller letter, reading, "Dear Miss March, while I very much enjoyed receiving your letter, I feel it only honorable to admit that I never sent any direct correspondence to you, nor would I . . ."

Jo's voice trails off as Meg dissolves into a fresh flood. I push the blankets back and swing my feet off the bed, but the room immediately begins to reel. I end up clinging to my headboard instead of comforting my sister.

Jo folds the letter solemnly. "Meg, I swear to you, I never sent Mr. Brook any letter. I wouldn't do that to you even as a prank. Even if I did want you to marry him."

"Did you, perhaps, misunderstand something he wrote to all of us?" I ask because I can't imagine why Mr. Brook would lie if he had sent a letter or why anyone one else would if they weren't Mr. Brook.

Meg puts her hand into her apron's pocket and withdraws a second letter, handing it to Jo.

I settle myself back against the pillow, trying to keep my head still, so I don't add to my sister's distress by wobbling or passing out.

Jo reads this letter more slowly. "Dearest Meg—oh, he never would have called you Meg—My absence from you has made me realize how much I miss your company. I intend to start afresh after Master Theodore has flow the coop and have begun to imagine a life with you. I want no promise now, only to know before I return if I have any hope at all of such an achievement of happiness. Yours, hopefully, John. Oh, Meg, how could you have ever believed Mr. Brook, of all people, would write this? And I certainly didn't! I'd have done a better job of it."

But Meg apparently did believe that Mr. Brook wrote it because she only moans, "I've been carrying it around in my pocket for weeks!"

Jo presses her lips together, picking up John's real letter and holding it next to the counterfeit. She gives half a nod. "The handwriting does look like his, I'll give you that. Except for the Ts. Those are different. These look like . . ." Jo's eyes widen, rising to fixate on the way. "Oh, that dreadful boy!"
"Tell me it's not Laurie," Meg moans.

Jo's mouth hangs. She doesn't tell us anything at all but turns her head and my two sisters stare at each other, then spring into action the exact same moment.

"Come, Meg!" Jo flings the letters onto my bed and her hand toward Meg. "We'll pay Mr. Theodore Laurence a visit, and he'd better not deny it because I know that T anywhere! How could he be so cruel to you? How could be so cruel to me? He knows I despise Mr. Brook!"

Meg closes her eyes like she's pushing back another wave of humiliation.

I swallow, feeling torn between dragging myself to the window to warn Laurie of his impending doom, for Jo does give awfully hard tongue-lashings to everyone except me. But also feeling a little like my sisters may be justified in their anger, for poor Meg may never be able to look Mr. Brook in the face again, and she does look so horribly embarrassed.

"Laurie is an hopeless romantic," I say, "Of course, he shouldn't have done it, and it was very wrong, but I feel quite sure that he wasn't intending to humiliate you or Mr. Brook."

"Intending or not, he did a fine job of it!" Meg sputters. "Oh, how can I ever forgive him!"

"You will, Meg," Jo says. "Because you're good like Beth. But you shan't forgive him even one moment before he grovels for it. We'll get the story out of him, then demand he repent in sackcloth and ashes and only then will we extend our hand of friendship!"
She grabs Meg's arm, hauls her to her feet and drags her from my bedroom. The door slams so hard, it nearly blows the letters from the bed and I grab them before they can tumble off. The oddest thing about all of this is I felt sure that Mr. Brook did have feelings for Meg. He was sweet to all of us, the day we got the telegram about Father, but it was Meg whom he watched, Meg whom he comforted, Meg whom he promised to escort Mother—and Meg who told him to keep her missing glove when he tried to return it.

So why would he reject her now? I frown, but open her letter again, wincing as I reread the first few lines.

Dear Miss March,

while I very much enjoyed receiving your letter, I feel it only honorable to admit that I never sent any direct correspondence to you, nor would I.

But Jo didn't read the entire letter, and I wonder now if Meg did because it goes on:

Should I ever pursue such a course, you may be rest assured that I will honor you and your family with the proper protocols, for I would never wish to cause any strife between you and your parents. You are far too precious to cheapen with the impropriety of soliciting secret promises, and I would never ask you to admit your love without first declaring mine.

I do, however, look forward to seeing you again when I return. You have not been out of my thoughts and I have enjoyed many pleasant conversations with both your mother and father while here. Thank you for your sweet letter, however it came. I carry it next to your glove.

Sincerely, Mr. Brook

P. S. I strongly suspect Mr. Theodore Laurence as our culprit. You needn't speak to him about this if you'd rather not. I will set him straight when I return.

I shouldn't chuckle, but I do. Poor Laurie will get an earful today and think himself safe, but only until Mr. Brook walks into the room. But I can't for the life of me imagine what outcome he expected would come from all this.

But I do wish Meg had read the rest of the letter, instead of running over to scold him, for then she may have not felt so humiliated. I'd like to sit up until she returns, but my body and eyes are already sagging. I can't even rouse the energy to call through the window, so Laurie will just have to bear the consequences of his actions. I settle back down and tuck Mr. Brook's letter beneath my pillow for safekeeping. She doesn't want it now, but perhaps in a day or so, this will be this letter Meg carries in her pocket.