phere.

"Helen" Stanard listened kindly to his boyish rhapsodies about his
favorite poets, and encouraged him to bring her his own portefolio of
verses, which he did, all but the ones addressed to herself--these he
kept secret. She read all he brought her carefully, and intelligently
criticised them in a way that was a real help to him.

As has been said, when Mr. Allan had discovered that his adopted son was
a rhymster, he had rebuked him severely for such idle waste of time, and
in a vain attempt to clip the wings of Pegasus, threatened him with
punishment if he should hear of such folly again. Mrs. Allan, on the
contrary, though she was not a bookish woman, had protested against her
husband's command--urging that Edgar be encouraged to cultivate his
talent. The ability to compose verse seemed to her, in a boy of Edgar's
age, little short of miraculous, and, proud of her pet's accomplishment,
she heaped indiscriminate praise upon every line that she saw of his
writing.

The boy, hardly knowing which way to escape, between these two fires
that bade fair to work the ruin of his gift, turned eagerly to his new
friend. "Helen" gently told him that she believed his talent to be a
sacred trust, and that he would be committing sin to bury it--even
though by so doing he should be fulfilling the wishes of his
foster-father to whom he owed so much. He must, however, not forget his
duty to Mr. Allan in regard to this matter, as in other things, but
treat his views with all the consideration possible. Above all things,
he was never to depart from the truth in talking to him, but to tell him
in a straightforward and respectful way that he believed it his duty
when poetical thoughts presented themselves to his mind, to set them
down, and even to encourage and invite such thoughts.

At the same time, she earnestly warned him against being overmuch
impressed by the flattering estimates of his work of his friends,
especially of his mother, who was far too partial to him, personally, to
be a safe judge of his writings.

A happier summer than is often given mortals to know, Edgar the Dreamer
passed at the feet of the lovely young matron who had become a sort of
mother-confessor to him. Happiness which, with a touch of the
superstition that was characteristic of him he often told himself was
too perfect to last. What was it that made him feel sometimes in looking
upon her under the serene sky of that ideal summer that a cloud no
bi