Rose in Bloom by Louisa May Alcott. I remember reading and rereading it and my poor battered copy bears proof of my enthusiasm. Though I'd grown fond of Rose and her cousins in the first book, it wasn't until Rose in Bloom that I really came to love them. I adored Rose and Phebe, admired Archie, Uncle Alec and Mac, and cried for poor, wayward Charlie. I remember all this fondly, mentally classing the novel with other unchallenging childhood favourites such as Anne of the Island and Pollyanna Grows Up (I was a romantic child - sequels with grown up heroines always held much more appeal).