Wild roses are fairest, and nature a better gardener than art. - Louisa May Alcott

"Come, Philander, let us be a marching, Every one his true love a searching,"

Would be the most appropriate motto for this chapter, because, intimidated by the threats, denunciations, and complaints showered upon me in consequence of taking the liberty to end a certain story as I liked, I now yield to the amiable desire of giving satisfaction, and, at the risk of outraging all the unities, intend to pair off everybody I can lay my hands on.

...Meg learned to love her husband better for his poverty, because it seem to have made a man of him, giving him the strength and courage to fight his own way, and taught him a tender patience with which to bear and comfort the natural longings and failures of those he loved.

"How beautiful that is!" said Laurie softly, for he was quick to see and feel beauty of any kind.