CHAPTER VII.

A NEW MEMBER.

MR. DEAN returned the children's visit without loss of time. He found them assembled in Mr. Gresham's orchard, and was given the seat of honor on an old stump, while he was shown the beauties of the post-office. His admiration for this institution satisfied even the children's enthusiasm, and when it had been exhibited from every possible point of view, Margery turned to Amy and said:

"Tell him."

"No, you tell him," said Amy.

"Jack ought to tell him," said Trix, "because he thought of it."

"Yes, tell, Jack," echoed Margery and Amy.

"Now what is this mystery?" asked Mr. Dean.

"It's nothing much," Jack replied, blushing furiously. "You see I thought--we thought that you might like--oh, I mean maybe you'd be another honorary member."

"Of the post-office, the H. T. C.?" asked Mr. Dean.

Jack nodded. "If you don't think we're too little for you," he added.

"I should be delighted," replied Mr. Dean, rising to bow. "It is rather if you don't think I am too big for you. But I'll tell you a secret. I grew up outside, but inside I stayed a boy--do you see?"

"Yes, I see," cried Amy. "What a lovely way to grow up! I mean to be a woman that way, too."

"That's like Miss Isabel," remarked Trix, but Jack, with an eye solely on the business in hand, said:

"We'd like lots to have you join if you will."

"I feel honored, and I accept with much gratitude," said Mr. Dean, and even Trix's sharp eyes, which were always on the watch lest she were laughed at, could see nothing but pleasure in his face.

"Now you'll have to choose a name," cried Amy, jumping around in high glee.

Mr. Dean considered a moment. "I think, on the whole, Oliver Twist would be an appropriate name for me this summer," he said, with humorous melancholy.

"Oliver Twist? What is that? Sir Oliver Twist, or plain Mr. Oliver Twist?" asked Trix.

"Are none of you plain Mr. or Miss; are you all a knight or lady?" Mr. Dean inquired.

"No; Amy is Mrs. Peace Plenty, but the rest of us are lady, and Jack is Sir Harry Hotspur," answered Margery gravely.

"And your Miss Isabel?" suggested Mr. Dean.

"Oh, she is Lady Alma Cara; it would never do for her to be plain _Mrs._," said Trix.

"I suppose not," assented Mr. Dean, with a queer little quirk of the lip. "I like 'plain Mrs.' rather well myself sometimes, however. But I shall have to be just Mr. Oliver Twist; it would never do to turn poor hungry Oliver into a knight. Amy and I will be the every-day people, while you others do the nobility for us. And I should like to know when you are all coming to take tea with me? Will the day after to-morrow suit you?"

"Yes, thank you," replied the children.

"Then that's settled. And, Jack, do you know a boy who would go fishing with me to-morrow after school?"

"I think I do," said Jack, looking up with a beaming face.

"Then will that boy come along with me now, and get his mother's permission to go?" inquired Mr. Dean, rising. "And, by the way, at what time do we come for our mail?"

"We came at first before school," said Trix, "but it made us so late that now we come after school, when Miss Isabel used to come."

"Does Miss Isabel usually come at this hour?" asked Mr. Dean, brushing his hat carefully.

"She's not coming at all now," said Amy. "It's getting so warm, she says, that she would like us to bring her mail to her."

Something like a shadow crept over Mr. Dean's face; Margery thought that he looked hurt.

"We are to take her mail to her in turn; we agreed to that," she said, coming close to him. "We'll all take turns going."

He smiled at her sadly.

"All of you whom she wishes to see," he said. "Good-by till the day after to-morrow, then, and thank you for this honor more than I can say. Come along, Jack."

Trix watched them enviously as they disappeared.

"That's why I hate to be a girl," she said. "No one thinks you ever want to go fishing, and I love it just as much as Jack does."

"Isn't he splendid!" cried the other two, disregarding her woes, and she cheered up in agreeing with them.

The tea was a delightful occasion, and the new member proved an acquisition beyond words, for now there frequently appeared in the boxes a card signifying that there was a parcel too big to go into the box, which might be had on inquiry of the postmaster. The new member devised this plan, and he was generally the sender of the parcels. These varied in contents from delicious candy, plants, books, toys, and all sorts of treasures, to six downy ducklings sent to Margery because she had expressed a desire to have some.

This funny parcel was considered by the others as a good joke, but Margery took it seriously, and her gratitude was unbounded.

"Dear Mr. Twist," she wrote in acknowledgment. "I cannot tell you how much pleased I am. If there is anything I can do to show you how much I like my lovely little ducks, and how I thank you, tell me what it is, and I will do it."

The reply came the next morning, and Margery found herself taken rather painfully at her word.

"Most Noble Lady Griselda of the Castle of the Lonely Lake," it ran. "There is a favor which I could receive at the hands of your ladyship which would give me the keenest pleasure, and your generous offer makes me bold to ask it. I have heard that you write poems. Will you be so very kind as to send me some of your work through the post-office? I should be most grateful for the favor, and treasure the poems as a precious memento of your ladyship's goodness."

This letter threw Margery into an agony of excitement.

"Who told him?" she demanded sternly, looking with dilated eyes over the edge of the missive.

"I may have just mentioned that you wrote poetry that day that we went fishing," said Jack sheepishly. "What's the harm, Peggy?"

"Yes, what's the harm?" echoed Amy, who was much impressed by the request. "You do write poetry, and it's lovely."

"Oh, don't be a goose, Margery; there's no harm in Mr. Dean knowing about it," said Trix. "Anyway, he does know, and you've got to send him some, so what shall it be?"

"I have to do it, but I don't like to," sighed Margery, tasting the trials of geniuses with indiscreet friends. "What shall I send him?"

"'The Knight,'" said Jack promptly.

"'Rome,'" said Trix.

"'Rome' is unfinished," objected Margery.

"'Millie Maloe,'" said Amy.

"I'll send 'The Knight' and 'Millie Maloe,'" Margery decided, and the next morning's mail contained a thick letter for Mr. Oliver Twist.

"Dear Mr. Twist," this letter ran, "the Lady Griselda of the Castle of the Lonely Lake sends two poems to you, as you asked her to. She hopes you will excuse mistakes in 'Millie Maloe,' because she was only eight years old when she wrote it, and 'The Knight' one she wrote last spring; and I am sorry Jack told you, because I don't like to be silly, but she is glad to do anything to please you because you are so good to us."

MILLIE MALOE.

All alone she is wandering, All alone in the snow; Lost in the pathless forest, Poor little Millie Maloe.

The tall tress shake able her, And the winds whistle and sigh, And poor little Millie is shiv'ring, And she thinks she's going to die;

And she falls asleep on the dry leaves Covered o'er with snow, But is waked by darling Rover-- Ah, happy Millie Maloe!

The dog is bending o'er her, And a sleigh is drawing near, And soon she's with her father, Who clasps his baby dear.

THE KNIGHT.

In a nameless grave does the good knight rest. He has fought for the cross, and so he is blest. Far away, in a castle grim, His wife watcheth and prayeth for him. Her baby son around her plays And tosses the beads while she prays. A message comes from the Holy War Breathing of love for the son he ne'er saw. Days after another one comes-- He's dead! "God pity the sorrowing ones."

The Lady Griselda received a polite note of thanks for the favor thus shown Mr. Oliver Twist, and the matter was forgotten.

School closed, and the fresh warmth of June gave place to the fierce heat of July. Gentle Miss Isabel was ailing, and the children divided their time between her and their new friend. Even Jack, who was less observant than the girls, discovered that though no subject was as welcome to Mr. Dean as whatever they might have to say of Miss Isabel, she did not care to hear them talk of Mr. Dean, and it puzzled them sorely to account for such hardness of heart in her who never before failed to throw herself wholly into their interests.

It was an unusually burning day, the sun beating down with terrible heat, and not a breath stirring the drooping leaves, when Trix, who was postmistress that week, handed a magazine to Margery with her other mail. It was from Mr. Oliver Twist, and she tore off the wrapper hastily, for everything from him was sure to be interesting.

It was a child's magazine, and as she turned its pages she stopped suddenly, and grew so pale that Amy dropped her doll, to the great danger of its precious nose, and flew with Trix to her side.

"What is it?" they cried.

"Look!" gasped Margery.

They followed her finger pointing, and there in the glory of type was "Millie Maloe" and "The Knight," signed with her own name--Margaret Gresham.

The girls nearly fell over in their wonder and awe, and Margery looked so white and excited that they really feared she would faint.

"Jack, come here!" cried Trix and Amy, waving their hands wildly to Jack, who appeared that moment in the gate. "Hurry! oh, hurry!"

Jack ran over to them.

"What's up?" he asked.

"Mr. Dean's sent Margery's poetry to the magazine. Look at it!" cried Trix, snatching the magazine from the hands of the dazed authoress.

"Oh, jolly me!" cried Jack, much impressed. "Why, you're a writer now, like--like--oh, those people what write poetry for the papers."

"I'm going to find mamma," said Margery, rising in solemn ecstasy; "and then I'm going to thank him."

Having rejoiced her family with a glimpse of her greatness, Margery went forth, attended by her admiring cousin and friends. First they went to the Evergreens--they had determined never to call the place "the Dismals" again, since it had become so pleasant to them, and, they wakened Mr. Dean from the nap into which he had fallen over his book, overcome by the great heat.

"You are very good to me; I came to thank you," said Margery simply, kissing him as she spoke.

"Did you like it, little white dove?" he asked, taking the poetess on his knee. "You are such a grave dove, and so still when you feel glad or sorry that it is hard telling when you are pleased."

"I like it _very_ much," said Margery earnestly--"I like it more than I can say, and when I grow up I mean to write all the time."

And there was told the secret that Margery had never uttered, for she did not tell her dreams as the others did.

"We are going now to show the magazine to Miss Isabel," said Margery, slipping down.

"To Miss Isabel?" repeated Mr. Dean. "Let me tell you something. I am going away."

"Oh!" cried four pained voices.

"Yes," continued Mr. Dean, "I mean to go next week. You are sorry, my dear little club, and I am sorry to leave you. You tried to make me live in Blissylvania, but it has been no use. I am going away."

"Oh! not forever," cried Trix, while Amy's lips quivered, and Jack stooped to lace his boot.

Mr. Dean did not answer.

"You'll all write me, and we shall be friends wherever I am," he said instead.

But Margery, unstrung by her previous joy and this keen sorrow, threw her magazine from her in a passion of tears. "You shan't go, you can't go!" she screamed. "What's the use of being famous, or writing poetry, or doing anything, if you can't have the people you love?"

Mr. Dean gathered her up, hushing her like a baby.

"I don't know, my little Margery," he said. "I have been trying to answer that question, but I can't."

They were four tear-stained and swollen faces that appeared before Miss Isabel a little later. The joy of seeing Margery's verses in print was forgotten in their sorrow over their threatened loss. Miss Isabel rejoiced at Margery's glory, but her words awoke no enthusiasm in return.

"You'll be glad," said Amy, almost bitterly, "so I suppose I'd better tell you why we don't care any more about the verses. Mr. Dean's going away."

Miss Isabel flushed and grew pale.

"Why should I be glad if you feel badly?" she asked gently. "I am sorry for you, for I think that you were having good times with him."

"It's not that, Miss Isabel," said Margery, with indignant vigor. "We love him."

And Miss Isabel kissed her.

"It's very strange," remarked Trix on the way home, "how if you have one thing you can't have another. We got the post-office and Mr. Dean, but Miss Isabel's been so queer all summer, it's been almost like not having her. And now Margery's poems are published Mr. Dean is going away. I think everything is crooked, and I don't know whether we're having a good time this summer or not, in spite of the post-office and all our fun."

Margery walked on in a brown study, so lost to her surroundings that she ran into Butcher Davis's big Newfoundland dog, which always sat in the middle of the sidewalk, and would not have moved if the President and the Queen had come along arm in arm, and she begged his pardon, to the amusement of the other three.

"I thought he was some one else," she said, arousing herself, while Jack shouted with laughter.

"What's the matter, Megsy; writing another poem?" he asked.

"I won't tell you," she said. "I've had an idea."

"Tell us; how queer you look!" cried Trix, giving her a little shake of impatience.

"I won't tell any one on earth; so there!" said Margery, with entire decision. "I want you all to make a novena for me, and begin right off to-night. I want you to pray for my plan, but I won't tell you what it is."

"Have you a plan, Margery?" asked Amy, who regarded Margery as a superior being, whose thoughts were beyond the ken of ordinary mortals.

"Yes, I've a plan," replied Margery.