"Vacation's here! Vacation's here!" shouted George Byron, bursting into the room and throwing his books upon the table.

"And a pity it is," returned his mother coldly; "you are so bad at numbers that you ought to be at school every day in the year."

George flushed deeply, but did not reply. He had learned that when Mrs. Byron wore this worried expression it was wiser of him to keep silence. Doubtless she had received one of those troublesome business letters again. Such missives always did disturb matters in the Aberdeen apartment, often causing Mrs. Byron to speak sharply to those about her.

This lady had belonged to the Gordons, one of the proudest families in Scotland; and upon her marriage with handsome Jack Byron, her fortune was seized to pay his numerous debts. Consequently, at her husband's death a few years later, Mrs. Byron was left in the city of Aberdeen with scarcely enough to keep herself and her child from want. The tiny rooms in Broad Street were filled with the massive furniture and costly vases, mirrors, and china that Mrs. Byron had brought from her father's house at her bridal; but the cupboard was scantily provisioned, and much thought and labor were required to keep George's apparel in trim for school. While, however, Mrs. Byron spent only pennies where her neighbors lavished pounds, her brain and fingers contrived so successfully that neither she nor the lad ever presented a shabby appearance.

"Come, George," said the lady more gently, repenting her impatience, "put your books away, and May will serve tea at once."

The boy's face brightened, and whistling softly, he crossed the room to the bookshelves. The odd slide and sudden halt with which he moved, together with the stout cane upon which he leaned, betokened that "the little boy at Aberdeen" was not quite like other boys.

Sadly enough, George Byron was lame, a burden very hard for an impetuous lad to bear. He was, however, too plucky ever to allude to his affliction in the presence of his playmates, but carried his misfortune bravely and independently as long as his companions seemed to forget it, and seldom was any of them so unkind as to mention his crooked feet. Athletic sports were his chief delight, although there were few that he could enter. At running, leaping, and dancing he was helpless, always forced to stand aside and watch when these were in progress; but he was an expert archer, could throw farther than any boy at the grammar school, and with the sling his marksmanship was astonishing. He was a prime favorite with all the boys at school and in the neighborhood of Broad Street, and he was thoroughly accustomed to the rÔle, for his handsome face and fun-loving disposition speedily won admiration wherever he went.

He gayly joined the boys in their pranks and adventures, often with his ringing voice and daring spirit commanding the expeditions, but, to the lads' amazement, he found his best enjoyment in the company of a little girl named Mary Duff. She was such a pretty child that passers-by often turned to look after her, and her soft voice and sweet manner showed her to be a real little gentlewoman. The mothers approved of this friendship, for they said that Mary improved George's manners, and that George helped Mary with her reading. The children loved each other dearly, and seldom did there pass a day when they two were not seen together.

To-night, at bedtime, George said:

"Wake me early, please, mother, for Mary, Aladdin, and I are going to spend the day by the river."

Mrs. Byron promised, and accordingly the next morning George felt himself being shaken by the shoulder, while from the midst of a dream he heard his mother say,—

"Wake up, wake up! This is the third time that I have called you, and Mary is already here."

Up sprang George, all drowsiness put to flight. When he had dressed himself and finished his bowl of oatmeal, he joined Mary in the drawing-room with a tin box of sandwiches, and an apple in each pocket.

The visitor bore a small basket containing her contributions to the luncheon; and as she slipped off the sofa at George's entrance her pinafore and little sunbonnet rustled loudly in their starchy crispness.

Down the stairs hurried the pair, bent upon calling for Aladdin, the third member of their company.

As they reached the street, George was accosted by Bobby Black, who, with a group of neighboring boys, was emerging from his gate opposite.

"Come on, Byron, we're going to watch the cricket game in Murdoch's field!"

George shook his head decisively.

"I'm going somewhere else."

"Ha, ha! Ho, ho!" jeered the boys in chorus, and Bobby called out in a teasing tone,—

"Oh, you'd rather go with Mary Duff than with us. You're Mary Duff's beau! Ha, ha! You're Mary Duff's beau!"

The little girl crimsoned with annoyance at Bobby's silly taunt, but George retorted quickly,—

"Well, you can't be Mary Duff's beau until you learn to wash your hands."

The laugh turned on Bobby, and George and Mary set off in quest of comrade number three.

As they approached a square stone building, a man standing before its open door disappeared within, only to return immediately, leading Aladdin, the most captivating of Shetland ponies.

This animal was George's one important possession, but instead of a plaything, it had been purchased for the boy's convenience in getting about. George's poor feet made walks of any great length painful undertakings, but sitting on Aladdin's back, he could go as far and as swiftly as he desired.

The pony was black and satiny for the most part, but upon his forehead a small white patch was to be seen, and his mane and tail were snowy. He was so fond of his master that he would follow him about like a kitten; and he always whinnied joyfully whenever the boy appeared at the stable door.

George tied his box and Mary's basket to the small red saddle, and turned to his companion.

"We'll ride and tie, of course. You mount first, and leave him at Baillie's stile."

Stooping, as he had read that the great lairds did, he allowed Mary to place her chubby foot in his clasped hands. Then, with her agile spring, he landed her securely on Aladdin's back. She gathered up the reins and trotted away, while George took up his walking stick and limped slowly after her.

Their plan was the old one, followed often by farmers and mountaineers, when two persons travel with one horse. One rides to a certain point, dismounts, ties the horse and walks on, while the other trudges along on foot until he comes to the place where the horse is waiting, when he mounts and rides to a second stopping-place, secures the animal for his friend, and once more tramps on his way. Thus, by changes of walking and riding, a goodly journey can be accomplished with less fatigue than might be supposed.

To-day the playmates proceeded along the wooded shore of the river Dee, at no great distance from home, but far enough that they were able to walk on the soft earth, to stand in a forest of mighty trees, and to bask in sunshine undimmed by the city's smoke and grime.

The journey was a difficult one for George, for he insisted upon walking his full share of the way, and, hopping along with his stout cane, he would sometimes be obliged to lean heavily against a tree or rock, panting violently and clutching at his support with both hands. He dared not drop down on the mossy bank, lest with no one near to lend him a hand he might not manage to get up again. So, after but two or three turns of marching, George sat down upon a stump and waited for Mary and Aladdin to come up with him.

The pony, with his dainty sunbonneted rider, soon came into view, and George hailed them from the roadside.

"Hi! Let's stay here. Don't you think we have gone far enough?"

"Yes," said Mary, pushing back her bonnet and glancing about the quiet place, where dazzling sunbeams pierced through the leafy ceiling and lightened the carpet of gay green moss; "do let's stay here; it seems nice and far."

Whereupon the lady slipped from her saddle, and leaving Aladdin to his own devices, after prudently freeing him of box and basket, joined George on the stump.

"What shall we do first?" she queried.

"Let's throw clay balls," suggested George, rising quickly.

"Let's!" agreed Mary. So together they scrambled down the river bank, and heaped a piece of driftwood with stiff clay. Returning, George cut two slender switches from a willow-tree and presented one to his partner. Then he rolled a bit of clay into a marble-sized ball, pressed it firmly on the tip of the rod, and, with a quick fling, sent the ball far out into the river.

George wielded his twig so dexterously that he could tap a mast in a passing boat, and selecting almost any tree, stone, or sail within a range of two hundred yards, could send his pudgy bullet home.

His cheeks soon glowed with the fun and exercise, and at every swish of the withe he called his comrade to bear witness to his unerring aim.

Mary, following his example, faithfully loaded her switch and let fly at every target that her fancy chose. Her success, however, was not brilliant, for her ball seldom soared beyond the shadows of the trees under which they sat, and never by any chance approached the object she had intended to hit. After numerous fruitless efforts, she laid aside her wand and brought from her basket a rag-doll which George had christened "Heatheress."

Luncheon followed, and when Mary had spread the repast on a napkin, she said,—

"Let's play house while we eat, and I'll be the mother, and you be the father, and Heatheress will be the baby, and Aladdin—oh, yes, Aladdin will be the visitor."

Now George would have writhed with shame had the boys at school heard of his entering into such girlish pastimes as this, but Mary was always so ready to join any game that he suggested, no matter how much she might dislike it, that he felt in duty bound to play her plays a part of the time. Besides, Mary Duff was so sweet, so winsome, that George found it hard to refuse anything that she asked; so he played "house" with a will, and enjoyed it nearly as much as she.

"Mr. Aladdin," called Mistress Mary, as she gathered her family about the board, "please don't take the trouble to come downstairs; I have just sent your luncheon up to your room."

The guest was evidently pleased with the arrangement, for he ate heartily of the delicious green things that he found in his apartment.

When the children had finished, they withdrew to the screen of a blasted oak and sat rigidly still, watching the birds fly down and carry away the crumbs of the feast.

Later, they made little rafts of chips gathered from the river, furnished them with paper sails and pebbly cargoes, and set them afloat for Spain, Africa, and Jamaica.

Finally, George drew from the breast of his jacket a faded, ragged book, and lay in the grass reading aloud from his favorite story of Robert Bruce, while Mary leaned against a tree near by and listened. Before the reader had reached the climax of the tale, he glanced over his book, only to discover the little girl fast asleep against her tree, with her lap full of wild flowers. Forbearing to disturb her, George finished the story in silence. Then the book slipped from his hands and he, too, stretched on the cool grass, with a few stray sunbeams flickering across him, sank down, down, to the land of dreams.

"Lay in the grass reading aloud from his favorite story."

A sociable whinny roused the boy at length, and scrambling up by aid of a slender sapling, he noticed that the shadows had greatly lengthened during his nap.

"Wake up, Mary," he called, tweaking one of her brown curls; "I promised your mother that I would bring you back by five o'clock, and we must go now."

Mary assented, as she usually did to whatever George proposed, and in five minutes she had sprung into the red saddle and cantered off to the first tying-place.

"Where's mother?" cried George, entering the house half an hour later.

"She's gone to Mrs. McCurdie's for tea," replied May Gray, the Scotch woman who had been George's nurse.

"Then I'll get Mary to come and have tea with me," and Master Byron hurried down the stairs and through his neighbor's gate. He returned shortly, bringing Mary with him; and the children were in the midst of their meal, when the street door was thrown hastily open and Mrs. Byron stepped into the room. Her cheeks were scarlet, and her eyes flashing with excitement.

"What is it, mother?" demanded George, rising, alarmed by her visible agitation.

Mrs. Byron placed both hands upon his shoulders, and looking down into his eyes, said hurriedly,—

"Your great-uncle, Lord Byron, is dead; and you, George, are now Lord Byron of Rochdale, master of Newstead Abbey, and chief of the Erneis."

The boy looked bewildered, and resting one hand upon the table for support, he bent earnestly toward his mother.

"I am Lord Byron?"

"You are! you are! Mrs. McCurdie has just come from Newstead, and she told me that uncle died nearly a month ago. There has been some mistake, else we should have heard of it before. I never knew the old gentleman, for he and poor Jack were not the best of friends, but I cannot think that he would have had us left in ignorance of his death. Doubtless the letters and papers will come very soon, and then, my lord, you can go to England and take possession of your castle."

"It—is—very—strange," murmured the boy. Always he had known that some day he would probably come into his uncle's title and estates, but he had somehow expected the momentous event to delay its happening until he should become a man. That honor and riches should at this time come to him, little George Byron, of Broad Street, Aberdeen, was an overwhelming surprise. True to his nature, whenever deeply moved by joy or sorrow, he grew silent, trying to settle in his own mind whether he was the same boy who had thrown clay balls in the woods that day.

Mrs. Byron rapidly explained some of the changes to come, and George listened as though stunned by the glories of his prospects.

May Gray, his devoted old nurse, slipped out and imparted the news of her dear boy's succession to all whom she met.

Presently neighbors and friends came flocking in to hear the story. The drawing-room became quickly crowded with guests, and they made so much of George, shaking his hand, patting his head, bowing to him, and offering compliments he did not understand, that the boy began to think being a lord was rather tiresome business.

When they departed, George closed the door upon the last one with a loud sigh of relief, and went in search of Mary, with whom he had not spoken since his mother had arrived with her astounding message.

The little girl sat demurely on a low stool, and as George approached her, she rose and backed timidly away.

The boy looked at her curiously.

"What's the matter?" he asked.

"I—I must go home," she whispered, making for the door.

"No, you mustn't! Your mother said you were to wait until your father called for you. It's terribly early yet."

"But I must go," insisted the child, with her hand upon the knob.

"Mary!"

George's tone was suddenly masterful. "Are you mad at me?"

"No, oh, no," she replied, shaking her head vigorously.

"Well, something makes you seem very queer. If you're not mad, tell me why you're starting home!"

Mary looked at him steadily for a moment, then her brown eyes filled with tears, her chin began to quiver, and she sobbed out,—

"I can't play with you any more, George, because your mother said you were—a lord, and—awful rich!"

Down went her face into the circle of her chubby arm.

"Mary, don't cry, please don't cry!" entreated George with a suspicious break in his own voice. "I like you the very same, the very same, and I'm just as I was, Mary. Truly I am."

Perceiving with distress that the little maid's plump shoulders still shook with grief, George regarded her uncertainly for a moment, then hurried across to Mrs. Byron, who sat busily writing at her desk.

"Mother," he inquired anxiously, "do you see any difference in me since I have been made a lord?"

"No," replied she, laughing, without looking up, "certainly not."

"There! I told you!" he exclaimed triumphantly, returning to the side of his sorrowful guest. "You will believe mother, won't you?"

A nod of the head against the pinafore sleeve rewarded him. Then from the depths of the elbow came in a choking voice,—

"But, George, you are going away!"

"Yes," he returned sadly, "I am going away."

A fresh outburst of weeping greeted his admission, and at his wits' end for means to comfort the little woman, he declared,—

"When I leave, Mary, I'll give Aladdin to you."

"Oh, George, Aladdin!"

Up came the tear-stained face, dimpling with joy and surprise.

"Yes, Aladdin. And whenever you ride him, it will be just as nice as playing with me, won't it now?"

"Oh, yes," she assented graciously.

"And, Mary," went on the boy earnestly, the while something tugged hard at his heart and threatened too to strangle him, "let's promise that all our lives you'll like me better than anybody else in the world, and I'll like you better than anybody else in the world."

"Let's!" she agreed; and George took her brown little hand in his, and pressed it to his lips, in such fashion as he had read that the gallant Gordons greeted the ladies of their clan.

The following day came a letter with an impressive yellow seal, confirming the fact of George's lordship.

Then followed a sale of all the furniture and draperies which the Byrons had used in the Broad Street flat; and one morning in July, the family left Aberdeen for England.

They were not to go to the castle at once to live, for the Earl of Carlisle, George's new guardian, had decreed that he should attend one of the great English schools for boys, joining his mother only at vacation times. Mrs. Byron did not desire to spend the months of George's absence alone in the great establishment, so she had taken a house near the school, where, except for occasional visits to the new domain, they would reside while George's education was being further advanced. But now they were going for a glimpse of their future home, and after to-day, Aberdeen would know them no more.

May Gray accompanied the Byrons to England, sturdily refusing to be left behind.

Mary Duff attended them to the coach, and the children's parting was a tearful one on both sides. But after many embraces, and the boy's promise to send her a letter every week, Mary allowed George to mount to the seat beside his mother; and as the conveyance rolled slowly away, she waved both chubby hands in response to George's steadily fluttering handkerchief, until the coach, Blue Dog, was lost to view.

After a night spent at the Nottingham inn, the Byrons hired a carriage and drove out to Newstead.

When they came to the Abbey woods, and the woman at the toll-bar held out her hand to receive their coins, Mrs. Byron, playfully feigning to be a stranger in order to hear what the toll-keeper would say, asked lightly,—

"To whom does this place belong?"

"The owner, Lord Byron, has been some weeks dead."

"And who is the next heir?" ventured Mrs. Byron.

Innocently the woman replied,—

"They say it is a little boy who lives at Aberdeen."

"And this is he, bless him!" ejaculated May Gray, unable to keep the secret; and at her words, the astonished toll-woman bowed nearly to the ground, hysterically commanding the baby who clung to her skirts to salute his young lord.

The Byrons drove through the Abbey woods, which proved to be an arm of the very Sherwood forest where long ago had dwelt Robin Hood and his merry men. Past the lake, with its fish, pleasure boats, and the toy ships which the old lord had delighted to sail to the end of his days; through the park, stocked with deer for the chase, and up to the Abbey they came.

The boy caught his breath at sight of the grand old structure which had been the glory and retreat of hundreds of monks in the Middle Ages, and which later King Henry the Eighth had presented to a certain Lord Byron, who had fashioned one of its wings into a princely dwelling. The visitors drove around the ancient pile, feasting their eyes upon its Anglo-Gothic beauties; then they descended from the carriage and entered the building. Guided by one of the servants in charge of the premises, they visited the dim cloisters, where scores of hooded monastics had daily walked; the chapel, the cells, the castle dungeons, the vast hall where the first Lord Byron had entertained three hundred guests at Christmas dinner; the late lord's drawing-room, the art gallery, and the mighty kitchen.

Everywhere the news had spread that the boyish guest was none other than the rightful lord of Newstead; and wherever George Byron appeared, men uncovered deferentially, and women and children offered sweeping curtsies. Mrs. Byron smiled at these with proud acknowledgment, and May Gray chuckled without ceasing throughout the progress, but George's face was uncommonly grave.

When his feet became too weary to allow of further touring, the party sat down before an open-air luncheon, spread for them on a table in the shade of a great elm.

Mrs. Byron, noting George's sombre silence, asked curiously,—

"Of what are you thinking, my lord?"

"Of Mary," he returned soberly.

"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.

They found a man, young, genial, elegant in appearance and cordial in manner. A few noticed that he limped slightly when he walked; others that his features were strikingly handsome; and all agreed that any one so thoughtful and talented should be sought out and welcomed to every one of their homes.

Thereupon, invitations began to pour in upon the poet, every post bringing letters from persons of rank, families of quiet life, statesmen, professors, and even people from the provinces, urging George Byron to visit them and enjoy the hospitality they had to offer. The citizens of London opened their doors to him with one accord, vying with one another for the privilege of receiving him under their roofs.

The young lord was astonished at the warmth of their enthusiasm, and to this day is remembered his saying,—

"I awoke one morning and found myself famous."