n a manner
seemingly accidental, but which he felt to be but another manifestation
of the divinity that shapes our ends. Some casual words concerning the
appearance and character of Mrs. Whitman, spoken by a casual visitor,
lifted the curtain.

So the lady of the garden was Helen Whitman! whose poetry had impressed
him favorably and whose acquaintance he had desired. Helen
Whitman--_Helen_! As he repeated the name his heart stood still,--even
in her name he heard the voice of Fate. _Helen_--the name of the good
angel of his boyhood! Were his dreams of "Morella" and of "Ligeia" to
come true? Was he to know in reality the miracle he had imagined and
written of in these two phantasies?--the reincarnation of personal
identity? Was he in this second Helen, in this second garden, to find
again the worshipped Helen of his boyhood?

He turned to the lines he had written so long ago, in Richmond, when he
had gone forth into the midsummer moonlight, even as he had gone forth
in Providence, and had worshipped under a window, even as he had
worshipped at a garden gate. He read the first two stanzas through.

As he read he gave himself up to an overwhelming sense of fatality.
Could anything be more fitting--more descriptive? The end of the days of
miracles was not yet--this _was_ his "Helen of a thousand dreams!"

His impulse was to seek an introduction at once, but this seemed too
tamely conventional. Besides--he was in the hands of Fate--he dared not
stir. Fate, having so clearly manifested itself, would find a way.

His correspondence was always heavy. Letters, clippings from papers and
so forth, came to him by every post from friends and from enemies, with
and without signatures. Yet from all the mass, he knew at once that the
"Valentine," unsigned as it was, was from her.

By way of acknowledgment, he turned down a page of a copy of "The Raven
and Other Poems" at the lines, "To Helen," and mailed it to her. He
waited in anxious suspense for a reply, but the lady was coy. Days
passed and still no answer. The desire for communication with her became
irresistible and taking pen and paper he wrote at the top of the page,
even as long ago he had written, the words, "To Helen," and underneath
wrote a new poem especially for this new Helen in which he described the
vision of her in the garden (but placing it in the far past) and his
feelings as he gazed upon her:

"I saw thee once--once only--years ago;
I must not say