l as a preacher; and Mr. Hart, the
sculptor; and James Russell Lowell, who happened to be in town for a few
days; and Mr. Willis and his new wife; and Mrs. Embury whose volume of
verse, "Love's Token Flowers," was just out and being warmly praised;
and George P. Morris, Willis's partner in the _Mirror_, whose "Woodman,
Spare that Tree!" and "We were Boys Together," had (touching a human
chord) made him popular.

The beloved physician, Dr. Francis, seemed to be everywhere at once, as
he moved about from group to group with a kindly word for
everybody--the candle-light falling softly upon his flowing silver locks
and his beaming, ruddy countenance.

Suddenly, there was a slight stir in the room--a cessation of talk--a
turning toward one point.

"There is Mr. P-P-Poe now," said Mr. Gillespie to Miss Lynch, and
followed her as, with out-stretched hand and cordial smile, she hastened
toward the door where stood the trim, erect, black-clad figure of Edgar
Poe, with his prominent brow and his big dreamy eyes, and his wife, pale
as a snow-drop after her many illnesses, and as lovely as one, and still
looking like a child, upon his arm.

Instant pleasure and welcome were written upon every face present save
one, and even that quickly assumed a smile as its owner came forward
bowing and stooping in an excess of courtesy.

The pair became immediately the centre of attraction. Everybody wanted
to have a word with them. It made Virginia thoroughly happy to see
"Eddie" appreciated, and she chatted blythely and freshly with all--her
spontaneous laugh bearing testimony to her enjoyment--while The Dreamer
yielded himself with his wonted modesty and grace to the hour--answering
questions as to whether he _really did_ believe in ghosts and whether
the experiments in mesmerism in his story, "The Case of M. Valdemar" had
_any_ foundation in fact, with his captivating but enigmatic smile, and
a little Frenchified shrug of the shoulders.

It would have seemed at first that he had diverted attention from the
fair author of "The Poetry of Flowers" to himself, but erelong--no one
knew just how it came to pass--Edgar Poe was sitting upon an ottoman
drawn close to the Chippendale chair, and the two lions were deep in
earnest and intimate conversation upon which no one else dared intrude.
The furtive eye of Rufus Griswold marked well the evident attraction
between these two beautiful and gifted beings--_poets_--and something
like murder awok