n St. George's and
Harry's faces, and the fact that Horn was about to read aloud, had
attracted the attention of several near-by members, who were already
straining their ears, for no one had Richard's gift for reading.

In low, clear tones, his voice rising in intensity as the weird pathos
of the several stanzas gripped his heart, he unfolded the marvellous
drama until the very room seemed filled with the spirit of both the man
and the demon. Every stanza in his clear enunciation seemed a separate
string of sombre pearls, each syllable aglow with its own inherent
beauty. When he ceased it was as if the soul of some great 'cello had
stopped vibrating, leaving only the memory of its melody. For a few
seconds no one moved nor spoke. No one had ever heard Richard in finer
voice nor had they ever listened to more perfect rhythmic beauty. So
great was the effect on the audience that one old habitue, in speaking
of it afterward, insisted that Richard must have seen the bird roosting
over the door, so realistic was his rendering.

Harry had listened with bated breath, absorbing every tone and
inflection of Richard's voice. He and Poe had been members of the same
university, and the poet had always been one of his idols--the man of
all others he wanted most to know. Poe's former room opening into the
corridor had invariably attracted him. He had frequently looked about
its bare walls wondering how so great an inspiration could have
started from such meagre surroundings. He had, too, with the romantic
imagination of a boy, pictured to himself the kind of man he was, his
looks, voice, and manner, and though he had never seen the poet in the
flesh, somehow the tones of Richard's voice recalled to him the very
picture he had conjured up in his mind in his boyhood days.

St. George had also listened intently, but the impression was quite
different from the one made on the younger man. Temple thought only of
Poe's despondency, of his striving for a better and happier life; of his
poverty--more than once had he gone down into his own pockets to relieve
the poor fellow's urgent necessities, and he was still ready to do
it again--a readiness in which he was almost alone, for many of the
writer's earlier friends had of late avoided meeting him whenever he
passed through Kennedy Square. Even Kennedy, his life-long friend, had
begun to look upon him as a hopeless case.

This antipathy was also to be found in the club. Even with the memo