a net woven of mingled fascination,
and envy, and hate, had, oh, bitter!--while generously applauding him as
a critic and reviewer--as a compiler and preserver of other men's
work--had added, "But--but--he is no poet."

He had received the stab without an apparent flinch. He had even laughed
and declared that Mr. Poe was right. That he himself knew he was no
poet--he did not aspire to be a real one, but only dropped into verse
now and then by way of pastime. The lie had slipped easily from his
tongue, but his eyes drooped ever so little more than usual as it did
so, their shifty gleam glanced ever so little more sidewise.

And though he came late to the birthday feast, his words of friendship
were emphatic and the laugh that told of his pleasure in being there was
loud and frequent. And he smiled and rubbed his hands together--and
bided his time.

And Edgar Poe was pleased--immensely pleased--on his gala night, with
the complimentary manner and the complimentary words of this welcome
guest--of this big, brainy man whose good opinion he so much desired.

Alas, hapless Dreamer! Did the gleam of those eyes cast alway slightly
downward, slightly askance--give you no discomfort? Did the fang-like
teeth when the thick lips opened to pour forth birthday wishes or
streams of uproarious laughter, and the square lines of the jaw, suggest
to your ready imagination no hint of cruelty? If you could but have
known that what time he laughed and talked with your guests and feasted
at your board, with its tasty viands and its cake with lighted candles,
and bent his furtive glance upon the beauty of your guileless
Virginia--if you could but have known that in his black heart the canker
jealousy was gnawing and that, behind the smile he wore as a mask, the
brainy man was biding his time!

It was a goodly little company--a coming together of bright wits and
(for the most part) of kind hearts, and the talk was crisp, and fresh,
and charming.

Supper was served early.

"My wife and her mother have thought that you Penn folk might like to
sit down to a Virginia supper," said the host, as he led Mrs. Graham to
the table, and stood for a moment while Virginia designated the seats to
be taken. Then still standing, said,

"Every man a priest to his own household, is our Virginia rule, but as
we have with us tonight one who before he took up Letters wore the
cloth, I'm going to abdicate in his favor. Dr. Griswold will you ask a
blessing?