e in his heart.

The tete-a-tete was interrupted by Miss Lynch, who declared that she
voiced the wish of all present in requesting that Mr. Poe would recite
"The Raven."

All the candles save enough to make (with the fire's glow) a dim
twilight, were put out, and the poet took his stand at one end of the
long room.

A hush fell upon the company and in a quiet, clear, musical voice, he
began the familiar words.

There was scarcely a gesture--just the motionless figure, the pale,
classic face, which was dim in the half-light, and the deep, rich voice.

Miss Lynch was the first to break the silence following the final
"Nevermore." Moving toward him with her easy, distinguished step, she
thanked him in a few low-spoken words. Mrs. Osgood, rising gracefully
from her chair, followed her example, with Dr. Griswold at her heels,
and in a few moments more the whole room was in an awed and subdued hum.

The girl-wife came in for her share of the lionizing. Her appearance was
in marked contrast to that of the richly apparelled women about her. The
simplest dress was the only kind within her reach--for which she may
have consoled herself with the thought that it was the kind that most
adorned her. She wore tonight a little frock made by her own fingers, of
some crimson woolen stuff, without a vestige of ornament save a bit of
lace, yellow with age, at the throat. Her hair was parted above the
placid brow, looped over her ears and twisted in a loose knot at the
back of her head, in the prevailing fashion for a young matron; which
with her youthful face, gave her a most quaint and charming appearance.

Her husband's coat had seen long service, but it was neatly brushed and
darned, and the ability to wear threadbare clothing with distinction was
not the least of Edgar Poe's talents. Beside his worn, but cared-for
apparel, costly dress often seemed tawdry.

* * * * *

Out from the warmth and the light and the perfume and the luxury and the
praise of the beautiful drawing-room with its distinguished
assemblage,--out into the streets of New York--into the bleakness and
the darkness of the winter's night--stepped Edgar Poe and his wife.
Virginia was wrapped against the cold in a Paisley shawl that had been
one of Mother Clemm's bridal presents, while Edgar wore the military
cape he had at West Point and which, except in times of unusual
prosperity, had served him as a great-coat ever since.

Thro