Margery arose from her night of terror armed with the courage of desperation. There were two letters in the post that morning addressed in her stiff little handwriting to Lady Catharine Seyton and Mrs. Peace Plenty. They were precisely alike, except in the address, and ran thus:
"The Lady Griselda of the Castle of the Lonely Lake requests you to meet her at the elm at the corner of the convent grounds after school to do something for the public safety."
Margery herself carried them to school and gave them to their owners, for it was her first day as postmistress.
"They were marked 'Immediate,' so I delivered them," she said to Trix and Amy, in the character of postmistress, with fine assumption of ignorance as to their contents.
Amy found her waiting with Trix when she appeared at the trysting-place a trifle late.
"Now she's come; what is it, Margery?" demanded Trix, who never could endure waiting, and had been fuming because Margery would not speak until Amy had arrived.
"It means that I can't stand this another moment," Margery burst out, glad to express her feelings. "I wouldn't be so scared every night as I was last night for anything. I want you to go with me to the Dismals, and see if that man's as bad as Katie says."
"I wouldn't go for the world," declared Amy, blanching at the thought.
"Nor I," echoed daring Trix. "You're such a scared cat, Margery, I don't see what you want to go for."
"It's because I am a scared cat," said Margery. "I'm afraid not to go. I should think you'd dare what I dare, Trix Lane, when you're always talking about being a boy."
"I suppose Jack would think we were brave," remarked Trix slowly.
She and Jack were engaged in a sort of perpetual "stump" as to which should outdo the other.
Margery saw an advantage here.
"Of course he would," she said. "He'd never dare say again that girls were cowards."
"But I am," said Amy candidly, "and I couldn't say I wasn't. Still, if you go, Margery, I'll go with you."
"You dear thing," cried Margery, giving her an enthusiastic hug.
"I'll go; I'd like to," said Trix hastily, trying to retrieve her reputation.
"Then we'll start right now," Margery declared. "Don't you see that I'm afraid to go, but I'm more afraid to stay away, because we must know what's there? If I had to lie awake nights thinking about the hump-backed witch and the evil eye without seeing them I'd be a raving lumanic."
Margery meant lunatic or maniac, it is not clear which.
The desperate band of amazons started valiantly down the street. As they neared the Evergreens their pace slackened, but they did not halt. Margery, the coward, went steadily on, and the others were ashamed not to follow. They entered "the Dismals" by a less frequented way than the gate—in fact, they crawled through an opening in the fence, and concealed themselves not far from the back door, in the long grass that had not been cut for many summers.
"My heart beats so I know he'll think some one's knocking," whispered poor Amy, and to Margery's additional alarm Trix giggled hysterically.
"Oh, keep quiet, and just pray," she whispered.
Presently an old woman appeared, and the agonized trio noted that she carried a broom. But she certainly was not hunchbacked, but a slender, tiny old woman, with a smiling face, and she began using the broom in a most un-witchlike manner to clear off the back stoop.
In spite of themselves the children felt a little reassured, but their fear returned when they saw a man come around the corner. He walked slowly, and they soon saw that this was because he read as he walked. A spaniel ran ahead of him, and came back, barking wildly.
"Why, Sheila, I'm ashamed of you," said the man, closing his book, with one finger inside, and shaking the little volume at the excited dog. "How often must I tell you that I will never help you to catch birds, and much less in June, when they have families to look after?"
His voice sounded kindly, and even sweet; his eyes were brown, and looked affectionately at the little dog. As Amy said afterward, "Neither looked like an evil eye." Comfort began to come to the three palpitating little hearts in the grass, and though they dared not whisper it to each other, the conviction struck them that there must have been a mistake. Just then Sheila, the spaniel, ran towards them, barking in quite a different tone, and so sharply that her master turned to follow her.
"That does not sound like birds, Sheila," he said. "What have you found?"
In an agony no words could represent the three valiant amazons lay quaking till they saw that the little dog had really scented them, and was leading her master straight to them. Breaking cover like three startled quails they precipitately took to their heels, to the surprise of both dog and man.
"Stop!" shouted the stranger. "Don't run, children; Sheila won't hurt you."
"But you might," thought the children, and fled faster, all their fear returning in their flight. Margery and Amy cleared the hole in the fence in rapid succession, but Trix, not liking to wait her turn to go through, tried to climb over, and stuck fast on a paling.
"If you leave me I'll die!" she shrieked to the other two, who were making off at a great rate. They turned and saw her face purple with fright, while the old woman, the man, and the little dog on the other side saw her long legs kicking so wildly that they looked several pairs instead of one. With heroism, genuine, if unnecessary, Margery and Amy stopped and turned back to their imprisoned comrade. They reached her head just as a hand touched her back. With a scream that made them sure that she had at least been stabbed, Trix made one last, desperate effort to get away, and was still.
"Let me help you," said the man gently. "Pray, don't be so frightened. Indeed, my little dog would never hurt you, and as soon as I can get you off she shall apologize for frightening you so badly."
So saying he extricated Trix's dress, and set her on her feet. His touch was so careful that Trix plucked up heart to look at him. He was not old, he was not ugly. Trix felt sure that if she had met him elsewhere and otherwise she should have liked him.
"Weren't there more little girls?" he asked, laughing. "It seemed to me a dozen started up from the grass when Sheila barked."
"Two, sir," Trix murmured faintly. "They are on the other side."
He came closer, and looked over.
"Please come back a moment, and let Sheila apologize," he said, and Margery and Amy dared not refuse.
They crawled back, and the man turned to the dog.
"Sit up, Sheila; say you're very sorry," he commanded.
Sheila sat up at once and whined.
"Now go shake hands all round," said her master.
Sheila rose on her hind feet and walked to each in turn, offering her little brown right paw, which they accepted, almost forgetting their fears.
"Now won't you come back and rest?" asked the man.
"Oh! no, thank you," the three little girls said in chorus, as if they had been rehearsing it, turning at once towards the opening in the fence.
"Then good-by," said the man. "Sheila and I are a bit lonely here, and we should be very glad to have you come again—when you can stay longer," he added, with such a merry twinkle of the eye that Trix could not help responding with a laugh, and all replied, "Thank you," in much better spirits, and went away quite enchanted with the mysterious tenant.
The more they thought over their adventure, the more they found their new acquaintance delightful, and the faster they hurried to look up Jack to vaunt their courage to him, and tell him the facts about their bugaboo. Great was Jack's amazement as he listened, and his admiration for their pluck was satisfactory even to Trix.
But the next day Jack had a piece of news for them that restored the balance of importance among them, and re-established Jack's self-esteem, which had been a little lowered by the brave deed of the girls.
"Well, what do you suppose I know?" he asked, coming down the orchard where the girls were putting the post-office to rights, the day after the invasion of "the Dismals."
"That wouldn't take long to tell," replied Trix saucily.
"You may have seen the man at the Dismals, but I know who he is," Jack continued, ignoring Trix.
"Who?" cried each of the girls.
"Guess," said Jack.
"An escaped bandit," exclaimed Trix.
"An officer of the society that takes care of animals," said Amy, who had been much impressed by the stranger's goodness to Sheila.
"An exiled prince," cried Margery, returning to her first idea.
"All wrong!" shouted Jack triumphantly. "Not even warm. I'll tell you what happened last night. I was reading in the library, and papa and mamma were there, and pretty soon I went to sleep. And after a while I woke up enough to hear them talking, and papa said: 'Well, it must be that he has some motive for coming back here, for no one would choose to live in such a dreary place as the Evergreens without reason.' That woke me up, and I pricked up my ears to listen. 'You know it was his grandfather's place,' mamma said; and papa said: 'But, my dear, people rarely live alone in a tumble-down house for their grandfather's sake.' Mamma said: 'No, I think as you do, it must be something to do with Isabel that brought him back here. Then papa said: 'It would be queer if they were to marry, and be happy after all this time, like story-book people.' And mamma said she loved Miss Isabel so much, and she was so good and sweet, that she should be more glad of happiness for her than for almost anything else in the world. And she said she thought Mr. Robert Dean was a good man. And then my old book tumbled down, and mamma said low: 'Don't let Jack hear anything of this;' and she said to me: 'Jack, dear, don't you think you'd better go to bed?' And I didn't think so, but I had to go. And now, do you know who that man is?"
"No," said Amy, bewildered.
"Why, is he Mr. Robert Dean?" asked Trix, immediately adding: "I don't know who Mr. Dean is, though."
But Margery looked greatly excited.
"Is he the one Miss Isabel was going to marry, ever so long ago, when she was going to live in that house near yours, Jack?" she asked.
"Right you are, Peggy," said Jack. "He's come back to take Miss Isabel away, I'll bet you, and so he is a robber, and we were right in the first place."
Trix assented cordially.
"He'd better not try to take Miss Isabel off!" she said fiercely.
Amy and Margery took another view.
"May be she likes him, and would be glad to see him again," said Amy. "Maybe she'd rather have him come back."
And Margery said firmly: "I don't want any one to take Miss Isabel away, but if she would be happier, we must not say one word."
"Much he'd care what we said," muttered Jack wrathfully.
"Yes," said Margery, "but we mustn't say it anyway. We'll go to see him, for he asked us to, and we'll see if he is nice, and then we won't care if he does marry Miss Isabel. We'll be glad because she's glad, and we won't let her know once how we feel about it."
Margery's voice had been growing more and more quavering, and as she ceased speaking she sat down on the grass and cried as though her heart would break. The others looked at her in silence.
They could not make up their minds to give up Miss Isabel, even for her happiness; but, on the other hand, they could not cry so tempestuously at the thought of losing her.
"Never mind, Margery; you'll have us," said Amy, sitting down by her and putting her arm around her.
"Yes; but you're none of you Miss Isabel. But I'll be glad, very glad," said Margery, with a fresh burst of tears.
When Mr. Robert Dean opened his front door in response to a faint ring at the bell, and saw three little girls and one very rosy-faced boy standing on the step, he had no idea that it was a self-appointed committee of investigation, and that his character was to be tried by a very exacting standard. Yet such was the case.
Following Margery's suggestion, Beatrice, Amy, and Jack had gone with her to call on the new tenant, to see if by any possibility he could be good enough to be Miss Isabel's husband, in case that were his object in coming to the Evergreens.
The visit was a difficult one, and was made still more so by the committee not finding Mr. Dean in the grounds as they had hoped to do, and thus being obliged to walk deliberately up the steps and ring the bell.
Mr. Dean looked down on them with some surprise, and Margery said faintly:
"We've come to call on you, sir, as you asked us."
"Oh, yes; we've met before," said Mr. Dean, recognizing Trix's black eyes, and laughing as he remembered the plight from which he had rescued her. "I am very glad to see you and so I am sure will Sheila be. Will you kindly walk into my parlor, like four pleasant flies, though I think I am not a spider."
The children thanked him, and followed him into the old house. The parlor was darkened, and their host went to the window and threw open the blind. The light revealed a room furnished in the taste of more than fifty years ago. Haircloth chairs were ranged at intervals around the walls, a carpet strewn with immense roses covered the floor, and the wall-paper in panels representing a tiger hunt so fascinated Jack's wondering gaze that he became quite lost in its contemplation. Margery had perched herself on the haircloth sofa, which was so slippery that she had to hold herself on by the bolster-like ends, for her feet did not nearly reach the floor. She rejoiced when she was rescued from her precarious situation by their host turning from the window with the words:
"My name is Robert Dean. Will you please tell me yours, that we may begin properly?"
All the others looked toward Margery, feeling that as it was her expedition, it was for her to do the honors.
Margery gladly slipped down on her feet.
"This is Beatrice Lane; we call her Trix," she began.
Mr. Dean made a profound bow.
"And the name suits her, if one may judge by appearances," he said.
"And this is Amy Tracy, and my cousin, Jack Hildreth."
"And you?" suggested Mr. Dean. "I should like to call you something too."
"I am Margaret Gresham," said Margery, blushing.
"I think you would be much more comfortable if you would take this low chair that my grandmother embroidered, rather than perch on that abominable sofa again," said her host, handing Margery a small ebony chair with a carved back and a seat of faded satin embroidered with flowers dim with time.
"Thank you," said Margery, with profound inward gratitude. "It seems a pity to sit on it if your grandmother embroidered it."
"It has been used a great many times, and was made for another Margaret, who for many years has been out of the world where things grow old and fade," replied Mr. Dean. "My father had a sister who died when she was just sixteen. This chair, I have been told, grandmother embroidered for her on her fifteenth birthday."
"How lovely to have it still!" said Margery, rising to look at the flowers again. "I am not eleven yet—not till October."
"That is a great age," said Mr. Dean, smiling. "And now you really do not know how glad I am that you came to-day. I was feeling a trifle blue, and wondering if I should be lonely all my life, and just then the bell rang, and four good fairies appeared. By the way," he added, starting up boyishly, "suppose we go into the garden? Sheila can come there; I dare not let her in here for fear of my housekeeper. She is a little woman, and I am a big man, but I am afraid of her. You see she was my old nurse, and I got into the habit of minding her when I was small. I think that she makes pretty good cake, though I am not the judge of cake that I was when I was younger. If you will go into the garden I'll ask her to give us some, and get your opinion."
He led the way through the side door, and the children found themselves at once in such a dear old garden that four "Ah's!" of satisfaction arose.
"What a beautiful, lovely old garden!" cried Trix. "It is as nice as Miss Isabel's."
Mr. Dean turned quickly.
"Do you know Miss Isabel?" he asked.
"Know her!" cried Jack. "She's our best friend."
"And she's lovelier than any one else in all the world," added Trix, with defiance in her voice, remembering who he was and for what he might be there. But Margery kept her big gray eyes fastened on his face, and saw the color come there and his eyes grow moist.
"So she is, Beatrice," he said. "You are fortunate to have her friendship."
Something in his voice melted all Margery's distrust; she slipped her hand confidingly into his.
"We love her more than all the world," she said softly. "We have a club, and her name in the club is Alma Cara."
Some sure instinct always led little Margery to divine the right and kindest thing to do. Mr. Dean looked down on her pale face and earnest eyes.
"And I believe you are the one who named her," he said. And from that moment, though he grew to be very fond of the three other children, Margery was his especial pet and friend.
Mr. Dean left them after this, and returned, bringing the cake and Sheila. The little dog was introduced to Jack in proper form, shook hands with each of her guests, walking over to them on her hind legs to do so, and graciously accepted cake from the children, first sniffing each piece cautiously, like the dainty, well-fed creature that she was.
Mr. Dean touched Amy's badge inquiringly.
"Might one ask what that means?" he said.
"It's a secret," began Amy, looking hesitatingly at the others.
"Oh, I beg your pardon," said Mr. Dean.
"But I think we could tell Mr. Dean, couldn't we?" suggested Margery.
"Yes," replied all the other members of the club promptly. There was no question but that the investigating committee had made up its mind, individually and collectively, to a favorable report on the stranger.
"It is the Happy Thought Club," explained Amy, indicating the initials on her badge; "and we have a post-office."
And each adding a bit of information, the story of the post-office was told him. Mr. Dean laughed heartily over the names.
"What fun you must have!" he exclaimed. "If I come to return your call, will you show me the post-office?"
"Oh, yes," cried Margery. "I am post-mistress this week. And, you know, we have one honorary member, and she's Miss Isabel, and her name is the Lady Alma Cara. No matter what we do, we always have Miss Isabel, because we can't get on without her."
"It is not easy, my little maid, to get on without Miss Isabel," said Mr. Dean gently. "What would you do if you could not see her, or speak to her, or write to her for ten year?"
"We wouldn't stand it: we will always keep her," cried Trix, firing up, and regarding this as a direct threat from him whom she was still ready to regard as an enemy. But Margery understood.
"I'd hardly be able to breathe," she said pityingly, laying her hand on her new friend's coat-sleeve; "but I'd know it would be better by and by."
"You dear little atom," said Mr. Dean, putting his hand on her dark hair, "it is no wonder that you at least have a white dove on your badge."
In a moment Mr. Dean spoke again, quite cheerfully:
"Now I have been thinking of something while we have been sitting here. I cannot tell how long I shall be at the Evergreens; it may be all summer, it may not be a month. It depends on whether I succeed in what I came to do. I should like to see as much of you as I can while I am here; do you suppose that if I asked you to tea some day before long you would all come?"
"Oh, yes, sir; we'd like to, if we may," said all four children heartily.
"I think that your mothers will allow it," said Mr. Dean. "You see you do not know me, nor I you, because you were all babies when I went away from here, but I knew your mothers and fathers. Now are you not surprised?"
Jack blushed painfully, but Trix said, with great presence of mind:
"I don't think that I ever heard them speak of you."
"Very likely not——" Mr. Dean was beginning, when Amy interrupted him.
"We were afraid of you," she said, in spite of the warning kicks and frowns of the others. Amy had a tendency to frankness that was at times wholly uncontrollable. "We had heard from Trix's waitress, Katie, that you had the evil eye and your house-keeper was a witch, so the day before yesterday, when Sheila found us, we were hiding in the grass to see if you were so bad."
The others watched Mr. Dean anxiously to see what effect this dreadful revelation of Amy's might have, and were relieved when he threw back his head and laughed merrily.
"Well done!" he cried. "I had no idea that I was alarming the neighborhood. I am glad that you decided in my favor, as I suppose you did, since you came to see me."
"Oh, yes; don't mind that nonsense," said Trix, and Margery, rising to go, held out her hand, saying, "I think we shall be real friends."
"Thank you," replied Mr. Dean, bowing over her little fingers as if, as Trix afterwards remarked, "she had really been the Lady Griselda of the Castle."
"Good-by," said the children; "we've had a beautiful time. Come and see us, and we'll show you our post-office."
"Good-by, my dears; thank you for coming, and come often," said Mr. Dean, as he held the garden gate open for them, and watched them go away, while Sheila "shook a day-day with her tail," as Amy said.
"Well, what do you think?" asked Trix, as they walked towards Miss Isabel's, whom they had not seen for four whole days, because she had been away.
"He's all right," said Jack comprehensively.
"I think he's nice," said Amy emphatically.
"He's the nicest man, except my father, I ever saw," announced Trix.
Margery sighed gently.
"I like him," she said, "and I'm sorry for him, because I think he's lonely and feels sad. He's most as nice for a man as Miss Isabel is for a lady." And praise could go no further.
Miss Isabel welcomed her fellow-members of the club heartily.
"We've something very interesting to tell you," said Amy, the moment the salutations were over.
"I am all attention," said Miss Isabel, coming to sit down before them.
"We've been making a call at the Dismals, on Mr. Dean," said Trix.
Miss Isabel sprang up again and went to the window.
"And he's very nice, Miss Isabel," added Margery conscientiously. "We were afraid of him because we heard that he was a robber, or had the evil eye. So we went to see, and it isn't any of it true, and to-day we went to call on him, and we're going to take tea with him soon. He's kind, and he has the loveliest little dog, and he seems not very happy, and we're sorry, because he's nice."
Miss Isabel turned and came back to them.
"And what about the post-office?" she asked, ignoring the new acquaintance.
Trix and Jack stared, Margery looked hurt, and Amy murmured in helpless bewilderment:
"It's very well, thank you."
Suddenly Jack brightened.
"Were you thinking what I was?" he asked. "You know I could easily move those partitions over in the lower row of the post-office, to make it hold another box like the upper row."
"I am afraid I don't understand, Jack," said Miss Isabel.
"Why, then we could ask Mr. Dean to be an honorary member, too," explained Jack.
"Oh, yes!" cried the three girls.
"I'm sure he'd be delighted; he seemed so interested in the office," said Amy.
"Should you mind?" asked Trix. "May we?" while Margery said nothing, but looked eager.
"My dear children, you may do anything you like, and will you do one favor for me?" said Miss Isabel. "If it is not too much trouble, will one of you bring my mail to me every day? It is getting so warm, I shall not feel like going down."
"Why, we'd love to," they all cried.
"Let me do it all the time," begged Jack.
"You will all come; I want you all," said Miss Isabel, rising. "You won't mind if I say good-by? I—I feel tired. Good-night, dears; come back as soon as you can."
She kissed each one lovingly, but there was no mistaking the fact that she was impatient to be left alone.
The children went down the street in wondering silence, which Amy was the first to break.
"Miss Isabel's sick," she said.
"She didn't care one bit about our visit to the Dismals," said Trix.
"And she always cared for everything we cared for," complained Jack. "She's not one bit like our Miss Isabel; I guess she thinks Mr. Dean's bad."
"No," said Margery decidedly; "Miss Isabel's good to bad people. Never mind; she loves us just as much. I think Miss Isabel's not happy to-day. I wonder why nice people are not always happy? Now, I'm sure Mr. Dean's nice, but he seems sad, and to-night our dear Miss Isabel's troubled. We'll ask Mr. Dean to join the post-office—that was a good idea, Jack—and then he won't be so lonely, and we'll love all Miss Isabel's troubles away. Oh, dear," sighed Margery wistfully, "I'd like to make the whole world happy."
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."
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.
The next morning Margery ate her breakfast of rolls and a bowl of blueberries and milk without in the least realizing what she put into her mouth. Her family was used to her abstractions, which usually ended in the announcement of some wonderful discovery or new verses, and paid no attention to her far-away look on this particular morning. She did her practising as faithfully as ever, but with such evident forgetfulness of what she was about that her mother came all the way down-stairs to ask her to defer it to another time, when her thoughts should be untangled. Accordingly she arose and went up-stairs, brushed her hair, and braided it with great care, donned her clean blue chambray with her favorite white ruffles, and went forth in solemn excitement towards the Evergreens, to unfold her plan to Mr. Dean.
She found him in the library putting his books and magazines in a case, in view of his coming departure. Margery's face clouded at the sight, but brightened again when she remembered that she had come to stay him.
"Why, what brings you so early, little dove?" asked Mr. Dean, brushing the dust from his knees as he rose to welcome her. "And all alone? How is it that you have flown away with none of your flock?"
"I did not want the rest," replied Margery. "I came to see you about something important."
"And I am very glad to have you all to myself," said her friend. "Come here, and sit by me on the sofa. You will not slip off of this one as you do from that slippery hair-cloth thing in the parlor. Now, what is the great matter that you have to tell me? Anything wrong with the post-office?"
Margery arranged herself beside him on the sofa, crossed her ankles, smoothed her dress, clasped her hands in her lap, and immediately unclasped them to remove her hat, folded them again, and was ready to begin.
"You see," said Margery, "I was thinking about your going away, and about Miss Isabel."
Mr. Dean looked rather startled.
"That is a queer subject for your thoughts, Margery," he said.
"I think that you are sorry that you are not friends with Miss Isabel," Margery continued.
"I am very sorry that I am not friends with Miss Isabel," Mr. Dean repeated gravely.
"Now I think Miss Isabel doesn't know," said Margery.
"Doesn't know what, little dove?" Mr. Dean asked.
"I don't know, but she doesn't know something," Margery replied. "Miss Isabel's this way: if anybody does anything she doesn't like, she always forgives them right away, before they ask her to, and if anybody's bad she says maybe they aren't what they seem. Now you're nice, and yet you're the only one she acts so queer about. I've puzzled and puzzled over it, and I can't see why it is, but I know she doesn't understand. I think you're friends all the time, only it's all horrid."
"Well," said Mr. Dean, smiling a little, "I think it's rather horrid myself."
"Yes," assented Margery. "Now why don't you send her a letter through our postoffice, and tell her how badly it makes us all feel?"
Mr. Dean sat up straight, and looked at her.
"I never once thought of the little post-office!" he cried.
"You're both members," Margery went on, "and you're the only ones who haven't written to each other. Now don't you think Miss Isabel would be pleased if you wrote her through our little post-office? Maybe she feels slighted."
"Margery, it's an inspiration," cried Mr. Dean. "And I could address it to Miss Alma Cara."
"Oh, yes, you'd have to, because that's her post-office name, only it's not Miss, it's Lady Alma Cara. And you know it would be all part of our play, and yet it wouldn't, because it's dreadful not to be friends with people; but she wouldn't mind so much if you wrote her that way."
Mr. Dean was walking up and down the room by this time, and he came over and stood before Margery.
"Did you ever hear that Solomon was a little girl before he grew up?" he asked.
"I never heard about Solomon when he was little, but I guess he was a little boy," replied Margery.
"Well, I am sure that he was a little girl with a pale face and blue dress, and that some good fairy made him into a king when he was big enough, and the same good fairy brought him here to me to-day, once more in the form of a little girl," said Mr. Dean.
Margery laughed.
"Do you think it is a good plan?" she asked delightedly.
"Good plan, Margery?" cried Mr. Dean. "Solomon himself could have thought of no wiser. I'll try it, and you will carry Miss Isabel the letter." He took her face in his hands and kissed her hair. "You dear little soul," he said, "I think that you will grow up a second Miss Isabel."
And Margery felt that in all her life she could never again have such praise as this.
"Will you write it soon?" she asked, putting on her hat, and pulling its elastic from the ribbon on the end of her braid.
"You'll find the letter in to-morrow morning's mail," replied Mr. Dean. "I shall be in more of a hurry about it than you are."
"And if you and Miss Isabel were friends you wouldn't go away, would you?" asked Margery wistfully, turning back in the doorway.
"In that case I promise to stay—oh, no one knows how long," said Mr. Dean; and Margery ran down the walk with hope and joy speeding her steps.
She found Tommy Traddles watching for her return, for he was devoted to his little mistress, and sat at the door on the lookout, and crying for her when she was out, which was proof that she made life pleasant for him when she was at home, for if any animal appreciates being treated with attention it is the cat. He arose, welcoming her with loud mews, alternating with the softest murmurs, and jumping up on a table, where he could rub his head against her cheek, and give her hands sundry pats with his white paws. Then he ran away and hid behind the door, solely for the pleasure of jumping out at her, and then waited for her to hide, which she did behind the sofa, and when she cried "Coop!" Tommy Traddles came creeping softly to look for her, and when he found her, sprang up on the sofa, and gave her a pat, instantly running away to hide himself, as if he said, "Now you're it; come find me." When hide-and-seek grew tiresome, Tommy Traddles went to get the stick which was his favorite plaything, and brought it to Margery in his teeth, laying it at her feet, and rubbing his head against her, and making the most coaxing murmurs to induce her to whisk it about for him to run after. Margery never could resist his pleadings, and cat and child had a delightful frolic until both curled up on the big sofa, and fell into a long summer noonday sleep.
The afternoon seemed interminable to Margery, so full of impatience was she for the hour when her plan should be carried out. Jack, Trix, and Amy came over for three-cornered puss-in-the-corner and old-man-among-your-castle after tea, which helped her through the few hours that lay between then and bed-time.
When her friends had gone Margery slipped down into the orchard, through the wet grass, regardless of low shoes and damp ankles. She opened the drop-box—it was her turn to be postmistress—and thrust her hand down to the bottom. One letter was there, a big, thick one. She took it out; yes, she was right. Even by the starlight she recognized Mr. Dean's fine, clear hand. While they were playing he had come in the orchard gate and posted it.
She ran with it to the house, but she knew before she held it under the gaslight that she should find it addressed to Lady Alma Cara, Blissylvania, New York.
"Now if only Miss Isabel will forgive him, and he can stay here, and we can all be friends," thought the little conspirator.
She took the letter to her own room and put it under her pillow. The moon peeped in a little later and saw a small figure in its white night dress kneeling by the bed, and praying very hard for the success of the plan that might give happiness to the two friends whom Margery loved best. It was long before she went to sleep, and when she did it was to dream that Tommy Traddles had joined the club, and that instead of wearing the dove badge, he had two white wings growing from his striped back, and was flying over the orchard to take Mr. Dean a message from the President, saying that he had been appointed postmaster of Blissylvania, at Miss Isabel's request. And all night long she wakened at intervals to slip her hand under the pillow to make sure that the plump letter was still safe.
Tommy Traddles was aroused from his morning nap by the shock of seeing his little mistress appear at half-past five all dressed and ready for the day. He welcomed her with his usual salutation of soft murmurs, rubbing his head against her, which she interpreted to mean on this occasion, "Why are you dressed so early?"
"I couldn't sleep, Tommy," Margery answered; "I have so much on my mind."
By six the entire household was awake, for Margery began to practise energetically, that there should be no hindrance to her starting to take the letter to Miss Isabel as soon as breakfast was over.
Mary, Miss Isabel's old servant, told Margery that Miss Isabel was in the garden, and the little girl ran quickly through the big hall and down the box-bordered paths to find her.
Miss Isabel was watering and tending her lilies. She looked pale and ill as she bent over the tall stalks, in her white morning gown, dusting the glossy leaves, and showering them from her little watering-pot. Margery thought that she had never seen her beloved Miss Isabel look so weary and sad, and fear for her health for a moment drove all thought of the letter from her mind.
"Dear Miss Isabel, are you ill?" she cried, running to throw her arms around her.
Miss Isabel brightened as she turned to meet her.
"Why, my Margaret!" she cried; "you startled me! What a very early bird you are! No, I am not ill, only a trifle tired, and perhaps a little sad."
This recalled Margery to her errand.
"I brought you a letter, Lady Alma Cara," she said.
Miss Isabel set down the watering-pot, and put out her hand.
"Was it a special delivery that you came so early?" she asked.
"I think it was," said Margery, "though it was not marked."
Suddenly Miss Isabel dropped her shears and sponge, and sat down on the old gray stone bench, beside which the lilies grew white and stately; they were not as white as Miss Isabel's face as she looked at Margery.
"What is this, Margery?" she asked.
"Mr. Dean wrote it," began Margery, very much frightened. "He is going away, and we can't bear it, and he wants you to be friends, and so do we, for then he would stay, and he has told you all about it, so that you'll be nice to him, as you are to everybody else, even—even worms," said Margery, inspired to this comparison by looking down at the lilies' roots. "Please, please don't be angry with him any more, Miss Isabel. You're the nicest of anybody in the whole world, except mamma, and he's the next nicest."
Miss Isabel was sobbing.
"Go back, dear Margery," she whispered. "You must go away now."
Margery was dreadfully frightened. She knelt at Miss Isabel's feet, and pulled her hands from before her face, peering under a lily to look at her.
"Are you angry?" she implored. "Only tell me that; are you angry?"
"Yes," said Miss Isabel, suddenly laughing in a queer sobbing way; "why didn't you bring this letter before?"
And Margery went away, pondering over this incomprehensible answer. As she walked slowly down the street she saw Trix and Amy coming to meet her. Trix's face was tragic; her cheeks were crimson, her lips set, her brow dark, and her eyes full of dumb misery. Amy's comfortable, rosy little countenance was stamped with sympathetic sorrow. Margery saw that something dreadful must have happened.
"What's the matter?" she called out, as soon as they could hear, running to receive the answer.
"I have been sent with a note to your house, and I'm to stay with you all day till three, and if I go out I'm not to go near home," replied Trix in an awful tone.
"Going to spend the day? I'm glad. What's the matter, Trix, that you look so solemn," asked Margery.
"Don't you know what that means?" demanded Trix, in such a horror-stricken manner that Margery trembled and shook her head.
"I'll tell you, then," said Trix. "You know mamma fell down-stairs three weeks ago and sprained her ankle?"
"Yes, I know that," said Margery.
"Well, the doctors are coming to-day to cut her leg off," declared Trix, and Margery gasped, as did Amy, though she had been told this before.
"How do you know?" demanded Margery, recovering from the shock.
"I'm sure of it," Trix replied. "I've heard how they do those things. They send the children out of the way always, and mamma thought I would never guess, and it would be easier for me to come home and find her leg gone than to be there and smell the ether and hear her groan, and I know that's it, and I shall die, I shall die!"
Margery and Amy looked at each other, feeling helpless in the face of such a calamity as this.
"Did you say anything to my mother?" Margery asked at last.
"No, I gave her mamma's note, and that will tell her," said Trix. "I didn't want her to know I knew, because they were trying to keep it a secret from me."
"It's awful!" shuddered Margery. "You'd better come home with me, Trix, and we'll try to do something to forget it."
"Forget it!" cried Trix, turning on her indignantly, as they began to walk onward. "Do you think you could forget it if you knew those horrid doctors were cutting off your mother's leg, and she had to go on crutches forever? Perhaps they're coming with their knives this minute."
Margery looked faint, Amy began to sob, and Trix quivered from head to foot.
"We shall all go crazy if we think of it," said Margery, bracing herself. "It may not be that at all."
"I tell you I know it is," asserted Trix, so confidently that Margery yielded the point.
"Well, come home, and don't let us talk of it," she said. "I know some people walk very nicely with crutches, and it doesn't hurt to have a leg taken off, because they use ether."
But there was no consoling Trix, and the task of entertaining her proved a heavy one. Jack came, and heard the story with so much excitement that the others were wrought to a higher pitch than ever.
"I'm going to be a doctor myself when I grow up," he announced. Jack would have had more lives than a cat to follow half the callings that at different times he thought that he should like to follow. "I'd like to cut off legs. Now, don't you fret, Trix; your mother'll be all right in a few days, and crutches would only be fun. Think how fast I can go on stilts, and that must be about a million times harder, for you don't have even one foot on the ground. I've thought of a good play. We'll pretend this house is a castle besieged by the enemy, and I'll be a scout. I'll go around by Trix's house every half hour, and come back to let you know how it looks."
This idea was hailed with rapture, and was about to be carried out, but just as Jack had reached the front gate Mrs. Gresham's voice was heard from the window.
"Jack! Jack!" she called.
"Yes, Aunt Margaret," replied Jack, pausing.
"If you are going out, don't go near Mrs. Lane's house," said his aunt.
So that plan was never fulfilled. Luncheon made one of the hours pass a little better, but after luncheon Trix's restlessness became uncontrollable. She wandered in and out of the house; she accepted Amy's proposition to make a visit to the church and pray for her mother, but, as Amy remarked, "did not seem to feel any better after it." She quarrelled with Jack, and almost fell out with Margery, for she teased Tommy Traddles till that confiding cat fled in terror, and altogether led her friends such a life that no prisoners could long for freedom more eagerly than they longed for three o'clock to come. It never occurred to one of the four to lay their trouble before Mrs. Gresham, and she being busy did not discover its symptoms. Children are such queer little beings that they will sometimes suffer all sorts of misery without a word, and in this case the feeling that there was a secret to be kept from them made them unwilling to betray their knowledge of it.
At last it was ten minutes to three, and Trix could go. Amy, Margery, and Jack accompanied her.
"I don't smell ether," remarked Amy as they went in the door.
Katie, smiling with all her might, showed them into the parlor. Mrs. Lane, looking very bright and happy, stood by the window; she turned at once, and came swiftly forward to meet the children.
"Look, Trix!" she said, and pointed to a piano standing in all the glory of new polish over at the end of the room.
"For me!" gasped Trix.
"Yes, for you. You see now why I sent you off," said her mother. "I didn't want you to see it until it was all in place."
Trix had longed for a new piano, but she did not know whether to be glad or sorry; the revulsion of feeling was too strong.
"And you didn't have your leg cut off, after all?" asked Jack.
"I don't understand," said Mrs. Lane in bewilderment.
"Trix thought you were having your leg cut off, and that was why you sent her away," explained Margery. "We've had an awful day."
"You poor, poor child!" cried her mother, taking Trix in her lap, in spite of her great length. "Why didn't you tell Mrs. Gresham?"
And for the first time in that hard day Trix burst out crying, though she explained that it was because she was so glad.
"To think that we've had such a dreadful day for nothing," said Jack, in profound disgust, as they left the house.
"Why, Jack Hildreth, I'm ashamed of you; one might think you were sorry that Mrs. Lane wasn't a cripple," cried his cousin.
The children parted at their respective homes, and Margery went around by the orchard to look at the post-office, for throughout the troublous day she had not forgotten her anxiety as to Miss Isabel and the letter. She met Miss Isabel coming out of the gate as she went in. She was all in white, with a bunch of sweet peas at her belt; her face was glowing with color, her eyes shining. Margery did not stop to consider how strange it was to find her there now when she had ceased coming to the post-office; she only stood still in wondering amazement at the change in Miss Isabel since morning. Miss Isabel put her arms around her, and nearly kissed her breath away.