"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?"