“How good she is to me! What do girls do who haven’t any mothers to help them through their troubles?”
The dry-goods stores were not down among the countinghouses, banks, and wholesale warerooms, where gentlemen most do congregate; but Jo found herself in that part of the city before she did a single errand, loitering along as if waiting for someone, examining engineering instruments in one window and samples of wool in another with most unfeminine interest; tumbling over barrels, being half-smothered by descending bales, and hustled unceremoniously by busy men who looked as if they wondered “how the deuce she got there.” A drop of rain on her cheek recalled her thoughts from baffled hopes to ruined ribbons; for the drops continued to fall, and, being a woman as well as a lover, she felt that, though it was too late to save her heart, she might her bonnet. Now she remembered the little umbrella, which she had forgotten to take in her hurry to be off; but regret was unavailing, and nothing could be done but borrow one or submit to a drenching. She looked up at the lowering sky, down at the crimson bow already flecked with black, forward along the muddy street, then one long, lingering look behind, at a certain grimy warehouse, with “Hoffmann, Swartz, & Co.” over the door, and said to herself, with a sternly reproachful air—
“It serves me right! What business had I to put on all my best things and come philandering down here, hoping to see the Professor? Jo, I’m ashamed of you! No, you shall not go there to borrow an umbrella, or find out where he is, from his friends. You shall trudge away, and do your errands in the rain; and if you catch your death and ruin your bonnet, it’s no more than you deserve. Now then!”
With that she rushed across the street so impetuously that she narrowly escaped annihilation from a passing truck, and precipitated herself into the arms of a stately old gentleman, who said, “I beg pardon, ma’am,” and looked mortally offended. Somewhat daunted, Jo righted herself, spread her handkerchief over the devoted ribbons, and, putting temptation behind her, hurried on, with increasing dampness about the ankles, and much clashing of umbrellas overhead. The fact that a somewhat dilapidated blue one remained stationary above the unprotected bonnet, attracted her attention; and, looking up, she saw Mr. Bhaer looking down.
“I feel to know the strong-minded lady who goes so bravely under many horse-noses, and so fast through much mud. What do you down here, my friend?”
“I’m shopping.”
Mr. Bhaer smiled, as he glanced from the pickle-factory on one side, to the wholesale hide and leather concern on the other; but he only said politely—
“You haf no umbrella. May I go also, and take for you the bundles?”
“Yes, thank you.”
Jo’s cheeks were as red as her ribbon, and she wondered what he thought of her; but she didn’t care, for in a minute she found herself walking away arm-in-arm with her Professor, feeling as if the sun had suddenly burst out with uncommon brilliancy, that the world was all right again, and that one thoroughly happy woman was paddling through the wet that day.
“We thought you had gone,” said Jo hastily, for she knew he was looking at her. Her bonnet wasn’t big enough to hide her face, and she feared he might think the joy it betrayed unmaidenly.
“Did you believe that I should go with no farewell to those who haf been so heavenly kind to me?” he asked so reproachfully that she felt as if she had insulted him by the suggestion, and answered heartily—
“No, I didn’t; I knew you were busy about your own affairs, but we rather missed you—father and mother especially.”
“And you?”
“I’m always glad to see you, sir.”
In her anxiety to keep her voice quite calm, Jo made it rather cool, and the frosty little monosyllable at the end seemed to chill the Professor, for his smile vanished, as he said gravely—
“I thank you, and come one time more before I go.”
“You are going, then?”
“I haf no longer any business here; it is done.”
“Successfully, I hope?” said Jo, for the bitterness of disappointment was in that short reply of his.
“I ought to think so, for I haf a way opened to me by which I can make my bread and gif my Jnglings much help.”
“Tell me, please! I like to know all about the—the boys,” said Jo eagerly.
“That is so kind, I gladly tell you. My friends find for me a place in a college, where I teach as at home, and earn enough to make the way smooth for Franz and Emil. For this I should be grateful, should I not?”
“Indeed you should. How splendid it will be to have you doing what you like, and be able to see you often, and the boys!” cried Jo, clinging to the lads as an excuse for the satisfaction she could not help betraying.
“Ah! but we shall not meet often, I fear; this place is at the West.”
“So far away!” and Jo left her skirts to their fate, as if it didn’t matter now what became of her clothes or herself.
Mr. Bhaer could read several languages, but he had not learned to read women yet. He flattered himself that he knew Jo pretty well, and was, therefore, much amazed by the contradictions of voice, face, and manner, which she showed him in rapid succession that day, for she was in half a dozen different moods in the course of half an hour. When she met him she looked surprised, though it was impossible to help suspecting that she had come for that express purpose. When he offered her his arm, she took it with a look that filled him with delight; but when he asked if she missed him, she gave such a chilly, formal reply that
