r a virtue.

Richard, too, had been noticing Harry. He had overheard, as the dinner
progressed, a remark the boy had made to the guest next him, regarding
the peculiar rhythm of Poe's verse--Harry repeating the closing lines
of the poem with such keen appreciation of their meaning that Richard
at once joined in the talk, commending him for his insight and
discrimination. He had always supposed that Rutter's son, like all the
younger bloods of his time, had abandoned his books when he left college
and had affected horses and dogs instead. The discovery ended in his
scrutinizing Harry's face the closer, reading between the lines--his
father here, his mother there--until a quick knitting of the brows,
and a flash from out the deep-brown eyes, upset all his preconceived
opinions; he had expected grit and courage in the boy--there couldn't
help being that when one thought of his father--but where did the lad
get his imagination? Richard wondered--that which millions could not
purchase. "A most engaging young man in spite of his madcap life," he
said to himself--"I don't wonder St. George loves him."

When the bell in the old church struck the hour of ten, Harry again
turned to Richard and said with a sigh of disappointment:

"I'm afraid it's too late to expect him--don't you think so?"

"Yes, I fear so," rejoined Richard, who all through the dinner had never
ceased to bend his ear to every sound, hoping for the rumble of wheels
or the quick step of a man in the hall. "Something extraordinary must
have happened to him, or he may have been called suddenly to Richmond
and taken the steamboat." Then leaning toward his host he called across
the table: "Might I make a suggestion, St. George?"

St. George paused in his talk with Mr. Kennedy and Latrobe and raised
his head:

"Well, Richard?"

"I was just saying to young Rutter here, that perhaps Mr. Poe has
been called suddenly to Richmond and has sent you a note which has not
reached you."

"Or he might be ill," suggested Harry in his anxiety to leave no
loophole through which the poet could escape.

"Or he might be ill," repeated Richard--"quite true. Now would you mind
if I sent Malachi to Guy's to find out?"

"No, Richard--but I'll send Todd. We can get along, I expect, with
Malachi until he gets back. Todd!"

"Yes, sah."

"You go to Guy's and ask Mr. Lampson if Mr. Poe is still in the hotel.
If he is not there ask for any letter addressed to me and then come
bac