JowasthefirsttowakeinthegraydawnofChristmasmorning。
Nostockingshungatthefireplace，andforamomentshefeltasmuchdisappointedasshedidlongago，whenherlittlesockfelldownbecauseitwascrammedsofullofgoodies。Thensherememberedhermother’spromiseand，slippingherhandunderherpillow，drewoutalittlecrimson-coveredbook。Sheknewitverywell，foritwasthatbeautifuloldstoryofthebestlifeeverlived，andJofeltthatitwasatrueguidebookforanypilgrimgoingonalongjourney。ShewokeMegwitha“MerryChristmas，“andbadeherseewhatwasunderherpillow。Agreen-
coveredbookappeared，withthesamepictureinside，andafewwordswrittenbytheirmother，whichmadetheironepresentverypreciousintheireyes。PresentlyBethandAmywoketorummageandfindtheirlittlebooksalso，onedove-colored，theotherblue，andallsatlookingatandtalkingaboutthem，whiletheeastgrewrosywiththecomingday。
Inspiteofhersmallvanities，Margarethadasweetandpiousnature，whichunconsciouslyinfluencedhersisters，especiallyJo，wholovedherverytenderly，andobeyedherbecauseheradvicewassogentlygiven。
“Girls，“saidMegseriously，lookingfromthetumbledheadbesidehertothetwolittlenight-cappedonesintheroombeyond，“Motherwantsustoreadandloveandmindthesebooks，andwemustbeginatonce。Weusedtobefaithfulaboutit，butsinceFatherwentawayandallthiswartroubleunsettledus，wehaveneglectedmanythings。Youcandoasyouplease，butIshallkeepmybookonthetablehereandreadalittleeverymorningassoonasIwake，forIknowitwilldomegoodandhelpmethroughtheday。“