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.