saw her color rise, and was down upon her in a minute.
"Amy, you've got it!"
"No, I haven't."
"You know where it is, then!"
"No, I don't."
"That's a fib!" cried Jo, taking her by the shoulders, and looking fierce enough to frighten a much braver child than Amy.
"It isn't. I haven't got it, don't know where it is now, and don't care."
"You know something about it, and you'd better tell at once, or I'll make you," and Jo gave her a slight shake.
"Scold as much as you like, you'll never get your silly old story again," cried Amy, getting excited in her turn.
"Why not?"
"I burnt it up."
"What! my little book I was so fond of, and worked over, and meant to finish before father got home? Have you really burnt it?" said Jo, turning very pale, while her eyes kindled and her hands clutched Amy nervously.
"Yes, I did! I told you I'd make you pay for being so cross yesterday, and I have, so—"
Amy got no farther, for Jo's hot temper mastered her, and she shook Amy till her teeth chattered in her head; crying, in a passion of grief and anger,—
"You wicked, wicked girl! I never can write it again, and I'll never forgive you as long as I live."
Meg flew to rescue Amy, and Beth to pacify Jo, but
