"Of Mary," she exclaimed in surprise; "doesn't the sight of all this grandeur atone for her loss?"
"No," he returned, "nothing can take the place of Mary."
"Then I'll tell you what we'll do," rejoined his mother quickly; "if you promise to study well at school, and bring in good reports, we will come back to Newstead at holiday time, and invite Mary to spend Christmas with us here."
"Oh, mother, do you mean it?"
"Certainly, I mean it."
"Hurrah, hurrah, for Newstead and Christmas and Mary!"
One day in the city of London there was published a strangely beautiful poem. Upon the first page was printed the title, "Childe Harold," and just beneath it appeared the name of the author: George Gordon Byron.
When the scholars and students and fashionable folk read the little book, they were spellbound by the beauty of the story and the verse. Immediately they said to one another,—
"We must know him, this poet who can write such enchanting lines;" and forthwith they thronged to his house to learn what sort of a person he might be.