These of late
had been devoted to many of Poe's earlier poems and later tales, for
despite the scene at St. George's the inventor had never ceased to
believe in the poet.

And so with these occupations, studies, investigations, and social
pleasures--she never missing a ball or party (Willits always managing to
be with her)--and the spending of the summer months at the Red Sulphur,
where she had been pursued by half a dozen admirers--one a titled
Englishman--had the days and hours of the years of Harry's absence
passed slowly away.

At the end of the second winter a slight change occurred in the monotony
of her life. Her constant, unwavering devotee, Langdon Willits, fell
ill and had to be taken to the Eastern Shore, where the same old lot of
bandages--that is of the same pattern--and the same loyal sister were
impressed into service to nurse him back to health. The furrow Harry's
bullet had ploughed in his head still troubled him at times, especially
in the hot weather, and a horseback ride beside Kate one August day,
with the heat in the nineties, had started the subsoil of his cranium
to aching with such vehemence that Teackle had promptly packed it in ice
and ten days later its owner in blankets and had put them both aboard
the bay boat bound for the Eastern Shore.

Whether this new irritant--and everything seemed to annoy her now--had
begun to tell on our beautiful Kate, or whether the gayety of the winter
both at home and in Washington, where she had spent some weeks during
the season, had tired her out, certain it was that when the spring came
the life had gone out of her step and the color from her cheeks. Mammy
Henny had noticed it and had coddled her the more, crooning and petting
her; and her father had noticed it and had begun to be anxious, and at
last St. George had stalked in and cried out in that breezy, joyous way
of his that nothing daunted:

"Here, you sweetheart!--what have you been doing to your cheeks--all the
roses out of them and pale as two lilies--and you never out of bed until
twelve o'clock in the day and looking then as if you hadn't had a wink
of sleep all night. Not a word out of you, Seymour, until I've finished.
I'm going to take Kate down to Tom Coston's and keep her there till she
gets well. Too many stuffy balls--too many late suppers--oyster roasts
and high doings. None of that at Tom's. Up at six and to bed at ten.
I've just had a letter from him and dear Peggy is crazy to have