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."