Just then Hannah opened the door.
“It’s time ye was eatin’, children,” she told them.
It was a jolly little lunch, where every one talked together. Mrs. Marsh was at a neighbour’s helping in the care of a new baby, and Mr. Marsh had gone to Boston on some business connected with the great slave question.
“You know, people say we may go to war over this business of keeping slaves,” Meg said, with sudden gravity. “But that seems too horrible.”
“If I were a man I’d like to go to war,” Jo announced, with flashing eyes.
Rose and Ruth were conscious of a hazy recollection. Surely there had been—but they couldn’t feel certain.
“Well, thank heaven, you can’t, Jo,” sighed Meg, “but I’m awfully afraid that father will. As chaplain of his regiment, you know.”
A frightened hush spread over the little crowd of girls, and then Beth, in her soft voice, spoke the right word:
“We’ll be sorry—but a glorious kind of sorry,” she said. “Father does what is right, and makes us all love it.”
“So he does,” smiled Meg, “and you are a sweet child, Beth.”