politics and the discovery of California, and discussed the
merits of the heroes of the Mexican War.

She sewed some patchwork for Cousin Jennie, who was making several
bed-quilts, and who had a lover,--a tall, bright-eyed young man who
drove a very handsome horse. Hanny felt quite wise on the subject of
lovers; and though no one said anything special, she understood what the
preparations meant.

"Now," Cousin Jennie said the next afternoon, "I am going up to Mr.
Poe's, to return some books and get others. Will you go along?"

Hanny was very glad. She had seen Mr. N. P. Willis and General Morris,
and some others, on the street; but that wasn't like going to their
houses. The dead young wife lent him a glamour of romance, to her
girlish imagination.

Mrs. Clemm sat on the farther end of the porch. It almost seemed as if
she had not stirred since Hanny caught the first glimpse of her. She
rose, a tall, rather thin woman with a sad, quiet face and a grave
smile; and the two had a little chat.

There was no hall to the house, at least the door opened into the front
room. A half closet stood at one side of the chimney, piled with books
and papers, an old sofa and some chairs, a table in the centre, strewn
with pamphlets and writing-materials, and the poet sitting beside it in
a melancholy pose, marking passages in a book.

He glanced up and spoke. The little girl had an impression of a pallid
face framed in dark, tumbled hair, and luminous eyes that seemed to be
of some other world in their abstracted light.

"You are quite welcome to any of the books, as you well know," said the
poet. "I am glad to have some one interested in them."

Then the white hand went on turning pages and making notes. The little
girl stood by the window, almost expecting the frail ghost to walk down
from the graveyard and enter the door again. Later on, she understood
the impression of weirdness, the almost ghostly stillness of the room;
and she found herself thinking over the poem that had so impressed her.

Fordham, in those days, was neither poetical nor intellectual. That a
man should starve on writing poetry, when there was other work to be
done in the world, seemed rather absurd. In some of the centres,
literature was becoming an honourable employment; but country places had
not emerged from the twilight of respect for brawn rather than brain.

Jennie made her selections, and expressed her obligation. The poet
nodded absently.

M