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.