s sick,
miserably sick, with the disease of longing; longing for the modest home
and the invigorating presence of the Mother; longing that was exquisite
pain for the sight, the sound, the touch, the daily companionship of the
child who without losing one whit of the purity, the innocence, the
charm of childhood, had so suddenly, so sweetly become a woman--a woman
embodying all of his dreams--a woman who lived with no other thought
than to love and be loved by him.

Life, no matter what else it might give, life without the soft glance of
her eye, the sweet sound of her voice, the pure touch of her hand within
his hand, her lips upon his lips, was become an empty, aching void.

After two years of the sheltered fireside in Baltimore whose seclusion
had made the dream of the Valley of the Many-Colored Grass possible, the
boarding-house with its hideous clatter, its gossip and its
commonplaceness was the merest make-shift of a home. It was stifling.
How was a dreamer to breathe in a boarding-house? He was even homesick
for the purr and the comfortable airs of the old white cat!

Whenever he could he turned his back upon the boarding-house and tried
to forget it, but the clatter and the gossip seemed to follow him, their
din lingering in his ears as he paced the streets in a fever of disgust
and longing. For the first time since Edgar Poe had opened his eyes upon
the tasteful homelikeness of the widow Clemm's chamber and the tender,
dark eyes of Virginia searching his face with soft wonder, the old
restlessness and dissatisfaction with life and the whole scheme of
things were upon him--the blue devils which he believed had been
exorcised forever had him in their clutches. Whither should he fly from
their harrassments? By what road should he escape?

At the answer--the only answer vouchsafed him--he stood aghast.

"No, no!" he cried within him, "Not that--not that!" Seeking to deafen
his ears to a voice that at once charmed and terrified him, for it was
the voice of a demon which possessed the allurements of an angel--a
demon he reckoned he had long ago fast bound in chains from which it
would never have the strength to arise. It was the voice that dwelt in
the cup--the single cup--so innocent seeming, so really innocent for
many, yet so ruinous for him; for, with all its promises of cheer and
comfort it led--and he knew it--to disaster.

Bitterly he fought to drown the sounds of the voice, but the more he
deafened his e