tion--that completeness--that unattainable which it is part of
being a mortal with an immortal mind and soul to be continually striving
after, and missing, and will be until the half-light of this world is
merged into the light ineffable of the one to come.

The Dreamer had returned from his brief visit to Baltimore a new man.
The blue devils were gone. The heart and mind which they had made their
dwelling-place were swept clean of every vestige of them and were filled
to overflowing with a sweet and rare presence--the presence of her who
lived with no other thought than to love and be loved by him; for he
felt that her spirit was with him at every moment of the day, though her
fair body was other whither. The consciousness of the secret he carried
in his heart flooded his nature with sunshine. Because of it he carried
his head more proudly--wore a new dignity which his friends attributed
entirely to the success of his work upon the magazine. He was filled
with peace and good will to all the world. He was happy and wanted
everybody else to be happy--it was apparent in himself and in his work.
In his dreamy moods his fancy spread a broader, a stronger wing, and
soared with new daring to heights unexplored before. When Edgar
Goodfellow was in the ascendency he threw himself with unwonted zest
into the pleasures that were "like poppies spread" in the way of the
successful author and editor--the literary lion of the town.

He had always been an enthusiastic and graceful dancer and now nothing
else seemed to give him so natural a vent for the happiness that was
beating in his veins. His feet seemed like his pen, to be inspired. He
felt that he could dance till Doomsday and all the prettiest, most
bewitching girls let him see how pleased they were to have him for a
partner. In the brief, glowing rests between the dances he rewarded them
with charming talk, and verses in praise of their loveliness which
seemed to fall without the slightest effort from his tongue into their
pretty, delighted ears or from his pencil into their albums.

There was at least one fair damsel--a slight, willowy creature with
violet eyes and flaxen ringlets, who treasured the graceful lines he
dedicated to her with a feeling warmer than friendship. She was pretty
Eliza White, the daughter of his employer, the owner of the _Southern
Literary Messenger_. She was herself a lover of poetry and romance, and
a dreamer of dreams, all of which had erelong mer