t of blue crape with delicate pink
roses, and a large bow of airy tulle tied under her chin. Her long
ringlets, the fashion of the day, drooped about her lovely face, that
smiled and dimpled as she talked. Her hands were daintily gloved, and
one held her parasol up high so she could glance about. Hanny was quite
sure she espied her, for her companion leaned out and looked also.

She left the child in a daze as she went by. Hanny had a secret,
exultant consciousness that she had seen her ideal poet; then she smiled
and wondered if she could write poems. Dolly was quite as pretty, but
she couldn't; and Margaret was handsomer. She could not quite associate
the sad, abstracted man up the road with "Annabel Lee." What a puzzle it
all was!

She went downstairs presently, and was sitting on the area steps
watching Cousin Jennie iron, when the tall figure in her shabby black
hat and veil, which she invariably wore, came up the outer steps. Hanny
ran to open the gate.

Mrs. Clemm was always quietly dignified. It was the intangible good
breeding that distinguished her from the ordinary country-folk. She had
a small tin kettle in her hand, and her manner was apologetic.

"They had some unexpected visitors from the city, dear friends of
Eddie's" (she oftener called him that than any other name, and she often
said "My poor dear Eddie!"). "Could they spare her some milk, and a few
eggs? They had no milk at the store."

"With pleasure," said Jennie, who went to the milk-room, and cast a
glance around to see if there was not something else that would help out
the feast.

The little girl wanted to ask some questions, but she hesitated from
diffidence.

She wondered afterward how the quiet, almost listless woman could
concoct dainty feasts for these illustrious people out of her poverty;
for they were illustrious in their day. Were the wit and poesy and
knowledge the successive desserts, and bright gossip the sparkle of the
Barmecide wine? She thought of the little cottage, when she read of
Madame Scarron among the French wits.

She described them to Cousin Jennie when the tall black figure was going
slowly up the road.

"Yes, they have a good many visitors," said Jennie. "They did last
summer, when poor Mrs. Poe was alive."

"Was _she_ very beautiful?"

"Oh, child, beauty isn't everything!" and Jennie smiled. "Yes; it was
said she was. But she was so thin and pale. She used to sit out there on
the porch, wrapped in a whit