Read The Lost Summer of Louisa May Alcott for Free Online Page A

study.
    Louisa set down her mending and followed him. “Father?”
    Bronson turned, startled. “Yes, child? ”
    She had to think quickly now. “Do you think . . . do you think Mr. Emerson will be thought of in the future as a philosopher? The way we think of Plato now?” She hadn’t actually meant to ask that, but now that the question was out, she did want to know the answer. Just as she’d hoped, he began walking slowly toward his study. She walked alongside, her hands clasped in front of her.
    He thought a moment before he spoke. “There is no question that Emerson’s mind knows no equal. But he is too interested in fame and scholarship, not enough in the divine.” Bronson squared his shoulders, forever at the podium. “He sees all but doesn’t always feel. Do you understand my meaning? He has a capital intellect but an undeveloped soul.”
    Louisa nodded, surprised to hear her father speak so critically. They reached his study and he walked around to his desk, pulling out the chair and settling in to shuffle through the disorganized stacks of papers. His face glowed in the light of the green-shaded brass lamp on the corner of his desk. He laid the mysterious volume of poetry off to the side and placed his journal on top of it, then looked up, surprised to see Louisa still standing in the room.
    As he opened his mouth to speak, they both turned toward soft footfalls in the hallway. Lizzie appeared at the door holding a small tray that held a tarnished coffeepot. She entered the room behind Louisa and placed the tray on a table under the window, then turned to Bronson. “Father, I’m sorry to interrupt your conversation.”
    “No need to apologize, little bird. What is it?”
    Louisa wondered at her sister’s ethereal appearance, the dove-gray cotton of her dress doing nothing to enliven her pale complexion and light hair. She seemed at times like a slender ghost who fluttered from room to room, enamored with the textures of domesticity: the smooth bone of the knitting needle, the snap and flutter of a sheet in the breeze. They called her their little bird, little housewife, though Lizzie brushed off this praise.
    “Marmee says there’s a family on River Road that has the scarlet fever?”
    Bronson nodded. “Yes, I believe I heard something about that in town just yesterday.”
    Lizzie reached into the right pocket of her apron and pulled out a handful of coins. A bulge in the left pocket squirmed and two orange ears poked out.
    Louisa giggled, pointing at the kitten. “I see you’ve already taken on a new charge,” she whispered. The sisters had long joked that stray kittens throughout the northeast flocked to Lizzie, knowing she wouldn’t refuse them. Once, in Concord, Bronson finally put his foot down and ordered them out of the house when he found a whole litter scattered in the spaces on his bookshelf. Louisa had helped Lizzie hide them under the bed until he forgot about his prohibition.
    Lizzie smiled, putting her finger to her lips. Bronson was flipping through a hefty book and failed to notice the feline interloper. Lizzie pushed the fuzzy head back into her pocket and held out the money. “Father, I’d like to send this to them, and I have some brown bread cooling. Marmee says they have no flour.”
    He looked up. “This is a kind gesture, Elizabeth, and it gives me pride to see it.”
    She smiled. “It wouldn’t be right not to give, when we can.” Louisa felt humbled by her sister’s generosity, though she wondered about whether they truly had anything to spare. Lizzie floated out into the hallway but then turned back. Bronson sighed impatiently.
    “Will you be going into town today?” she asked.
    “Yes,” Bronson said with a little irritation. “Just as soon as I have a moment to complete this letter. I will deliver your gifts then.”
    Lizzie nodded. “Thank you, Father.”
    Bronson turned back to Louisa, who stood waiting patiently to reclaim the thread of their