imacies he was forming but Miles' view seemed
extreme to him. Besides, he found at the University the same caste
feeling that had cut him off from familiar intercourse with the leaders
among his Richmond schoolmates. It was but natural, therefore, that he
should have turned gratefully, to the society where his welcome was
sure.

Finally words passed between him and Miles, ending in a formal meeting,
with seconds on both sides. Their only weapons were their fists, and
they shook hands afterward; but the idea of continuing to share the same
bed-room was out of the question. Of the vacant rooms to be had, Edgar
promptly decided upon Number 13, Rowdy Row, and the second step in a
wrong direction quickly followed the first.

He was hailed by the rest of the "Row" with delight, and he promptly
decided to return their many hospitalities in his new room, which he
proceeded to elaborately prepare for their reception.

The result was an early and noisy house-warming. The guests were filled
with admiration to find the walls of Number 13 decorated in honor of the
occasion with charcoal sketches representing scenes from Byron's works
done by the clever hand of the new occupant himself. They also found
Edgar Goodfellow in the character of host, presiding over his own
card-table and his own bowl--a generous one--of peach-honey, in the
highest feather and his most captivating mood.

CHAPTER XI.

Erelong Number 13 was the liveliest and most popular room in the Row,
but of the orgies held there the faculty rested in blissful
unconsciousness. At class-time young Poe was invariably in his place and
invariably the pale, thoughtful, student-like and faultlessly neat and
gentle-mannered youth whose intelligent attention and admirable
recitations were the joy of his masters. They heard rumors that he was
something of a poet and were not surprised, the suggestions of ideality
in the formation of his brow and the expression of his eyes hinted at
such talent, and so long as he did not let the Muse come between him and
his regular work, he should not be discouraged or restrained.

Indeed, in spite of the sway of Edgar Goodfellow at this time, Edgar the
Dreamer was often present too, and during solitary tramps into the wild
fastenesses of the Ragged Mountains, he not only conceived many fancies
to be worked into poems, but made mentally, the first draft of a story
to win fame.

The love of no real woman came to supplant the seemingl