y was canopied and the large, bright windows were curtained
with snowiest dimity, but the draperies of both were drawn and he could
look out at the trees and the sky now roseate with the hues of evening.
In a set of shelves that nearly reached the ceiling stood row on row of
friendly looking books. Upon a high mahogany chest of drawers, with its
polished brass trimmings and little swinging looking-glass, stood a
white and gold porcelain vase filled with asters--purple, white and
pink--while before it, in a deep arm-chair, a little girl of ten or
eleven years, with a face like a Luca della Robbia chorister, or like
one of the children of sunny Italy that served for old Luca's model, was
curled up, stroking a large white cat which lay purring in her lap.

Upon the child the wondering eyes of the sick man lingered longest and
to her they returned when their survey of the rest of the room was done.
Suddenly, impelled by the steadiness of his gaze, she lifted her own
dark, soft eyes and let them rest for a moment upon his. She
started--then was up and across the floor in a flash, carrying the cat
upon her shoulder.

"Muddie, Muddie," she cried from the door, "The new Buddie is awake!"

Then, still carrying her pet, she walked, to his bedside and gazed
earnestly and unabashed into the "new Buddie's" face. Her eyes had the
velvety softness of pansy petals and as they looked into the eyes of the
sick man recalled to his clearing mind the expression of mixed love and
questioning in the eyes of his spaniel, "Comrade," the faithful friend
of his boyhood.

At length he spoke.

"Who is 'Muddie'?"

"She's my mother, and you are my new brother that has come to live with
us always."

A radiant smile illumined the pale and haggard face. "Thank Heaven for
that!" he said. "And who brought me up out of the grave?"

The child was spared the necessity of puzzling over this startling
question. _Surely it was no other than she_, he thought--she who at this
moment appeared at the open door--the tall figure of a woman or angel
who in the next moment was kneeling beside him with a heaven of
protecting love in her face. _She it was, no other!_ Through all of his
dreams he had been dimly conscious of her--saving him from death and
despair. Now for the first time, in the light of life, and in his new
consciousness he saw her plainly.

* * * * *

Edgar Poe's convalescence was slow but it was steady, and even