ear, by his
writing, and the writing of others whom he had induced to contribute to
its pages, to lead the thought of the day in America.

And the success of The Dreamer made him a lion in the "City of Brotherly
Love" as it had made him a lion in Richmond. The doors of the most
exclusive--the most cultivated--homes of that fastidious city stood open
to welcome him. The loveliest women, whether the grey ladies of the
"Society of Friends" or the brightly plumaged birds of the gayer world,
smiled their sweetest upon him. As he walked along the streets
passers-by would whisper to one another,

"There goes Mr. Poe. Did you notice his eyes? They say he has the most
expressive eyes in Philadelphia."

* * * * *

Throughout this year of almost dazzling triumph the little cottage with
its rose-hooded porch, in Spring Garden, had been a veritable snug
harbor to The Dreamer. In winter when the deep, spotless snow lay round
about it, in spring when the violets and hyacinths came back to the
garden-spot and the singing birds to the trees that overhung it, in
summer when the climbing green rose was heavy with bloom and in autumn
when the wind whistled around it, but there was a bright blaze upon the
hearth inside, his heart turned joyously many times a day, and his feet
at eventide, when his work at the office in the city was over, toward
this sacred haven.

And Edgar the Dreamer was happy. He should have been rich and would have
been but for the meagre returns from literary work in his time. Men were
then supposed to write for fame, and very little money was deemed
sufficient reward for the best work. The poverty of authors was
proverbial and to starve cheerfully was supposed to be part of being
one.

Still, with his post as editor of _Graham's_ and the frequency with
which his signature was seen in other magazines, he was making a living.
The howl of the wolf or his sickening scratching at the door were no
more heard, and in the Valley of the Many-Colored Grass the three
dreamers laughed together, and in the streets of the "City of Brotherly
Love" Edgar Goodfellow whistled a gay air, or arm in arm with some boon
companion of the "Press gang" threaded his way in and out among of the
human stream, with a smile on his lips and the light of gladness in
living in his eyes.

And why should he not be happy? he asked himself. He had the snuggest
little home in the world and, in it, the loveliest littl