once more
in the cottage.

But it was a happiness with a difference. A happiness which for all it
was so sweet, was tinctured with the bitter of remorse.

During the illness of his beloved wife, Edgar Poe had lived over and
over again through the horror of her death and burial with all of the
details with which the circumstances of his life had so early made him
familiar--and had tasted the desolation for him which must follow. While
his soul had been overwhelmed with this supreme sorrow his mind had been
unusually clear and alert. He had been alive to the slightest change in
her condition. Anticipating her every whim, he had nursed her with the
tenderness the untiring devotion, of a mother with her babe. Through
all his grief he was quiet, self-possessed, efficient.

But with the first glimmer of hope, his head reeled. His reason which
had stood the shock of despair, or seemed to stand it, gave way before
the return of happiness. A wild delirium possessed him. Joy drove him
mad, and already drunk with joy--mad with it--he flung prudence,
philosophy, resolutions to the wind and drank wine--and drank--and
drank. When--where--how much--he did not know; but at last merciful
illness overtook him and stopped him in his wild career.

With his convalescence his right mind returned to him; but he felt as he
did when he awoke to consciousness in Mother Clemm's bed-chamber in
Baltimore--that he had been down into the grave and back again.
Only--then there was no remorse--no fiercely accusing conscience to make
him wish from his soul that he might have remained in the abyss.

* * * * *

In dressing-gown and slippers he sat--weak and tremulous--in an
arm-chair drawn close to the open fire in the cottage sitting-room.
About him hovered his two angels, anticipating his every need, pausing
at his side now and again to bestow a delicate caress. Virginia was more
beautiful since her illness. Her face and figure had lost their
plumpness and with it their childish curves--but a something exalted and
ethereal had taken their place. Her eyes were softer, more wistful than
ever. Through her fair, transparent skin glowed the faintest, most
exquisite bloom. Her harp was mute. Her singing voice was gone. But the
deep, low tones of her speaking voice, full of restrained feeling, could
only be compared by her husband to the melodious voice of the
dream-woman, "Ligeia." They recalled to him the impression that