orch?"

"That was Mrs. Clemm. I go up there to borrow books; and I like Mr. Poe,
only--well, he is rather unfortunate."

"Was she so beautiful?" asked the child, irrelevantly.

"Mrs. Poe? Yes; I think she must have been. She looked like a small
white wraith--do you know what a wraith is?" smilingly.

"A kind of ghost. And were they very poor?"

"It's a sad story. I think they were proud as well, for any one would
have come in and done any needed thing. They had friends in the city who
used to visit them. Mrs. Clemm was Mrs. Poe's mother and the poet's
aunt; and it is said Annabel Lee means his wife. It's a wild, musical
thing. Every story or poem of his has a curious ghostly sound."

"But--the high-born kinsman--"

The little girl's eyes were vague and puzzled.

"You can't understand it. Poets say queer things. I'm not fond of
poetry, only here and there. And the stories make you shiver. You
wouldn't like them. He has all sorts of books, and he is very generous
with them. We've planned that you are to come up and stay a week with
us. Some of the folks are going away, and there will be plenty of room."

Hanny squeezed her hand. The throng of children ran over the grassy path
from the shop; and they all began to clamour that Polly and Janey
should come up Saturday and go crabbing with them.

Mrs. Odell said she'd see, if they could get their work done in time.

There was a hubbub of good-byes, and the small cavalcade started down
the road.

CHAPTER X

WITH A POET

The city by the sea sung itself in Hanny's brain. The sweet, young,
beautiful wife, ruthlessly torn away, was somewhere in space, among the
stars perhaps, and not in the old graveyard. She was floating on and on
amidst all lovely things and divine fragrances. She could never grow
old; she would never want for anything. Ah, would she not want for the
mother and the poet who loved her?

An incident that had moved her strongly only a few weeks before, was a
strange bit of reminiscence that could hardly be called a story. Ben had
brought home a volume of De Quincey, and "Suspiria de Profundis" was
among the papers. The others were too intellectual to interest her; but
the touching, tender, immeasurable longing for the little sister gone
out of life, filled her inmost soul with an emotion so sacred she could
not talk it over with any one. This was akin to it.

Yet Hanny did not live in the clouds or in vague memories all the time.
Her fath