n, too. I must tell her
she captured you at sight. That is Frances Sargent Osgood. And beside
her sat Mrs. Gove Nichols, one of the new lights. Stay, I think I can
find a poem or two of Fanny Osgood's for you."

He hunted up two or three magazines. Hanny sat down on the door-sill; it
was so softly, so enchantingly bright out-of-doors, and the room a
little gloomy. She wanted to have a glimpse of sunshine, for Mrs. Osgood
looked as if she belonged to the brighter world.

They were dainty and bright. One was set to music afterward; and the
little girl learned to sing it very prettily:--

"I've something sweet to tell you,
And the secret you must keep,
For remember, if it isn't night,
I'm talking in my sleep."

Then they talked about poetry. I dare say he was amused at a little girl
whose ideal poem was "Genevieve," by Coleridge, and who knew
"Christobel," "The Ancient Mariner," and "The Lady of the Lake" half by
heart. When, in her young womanhood, she read some of his sharp,
scathing criticisms, she wondered at his sweetness that afternoon. With
a little more courage, she would have asked him what was really meant by
"the high-born kinsman;" but she did not know as it was quite proper to
talk to him about his own verses.

The wood-robins were singing in the tall trees, and the sun made dancing
shadows on the stoop that was always clean as a floor. Mrs. Clemm
brought her splint rocker out, and begged her to try it, and asked after
the cousins, sending thanks for the cake that she had found in her
basket, and the pot-cheese that had proved such a treat to her visitors.

She thanked Mrs. Clemm prettily for the chair, but said she must go
home. The poet nodded. He had taken up his pen then, and she wondered
what the spell was like that inspired a poem.

The next forenoon, they saw Mr. Poe going down to the station. Cousin
Jennie shook her head; and the stout old Major said, "It was a pity Mrs.
Clemm couldn't keep him at home steadily."

She was never to see him again; but when she heard of his tragic death,
her heart ached for the poor desolate mother.

CHAPTER XI

THE KING OF TERRORS

They all admitted that Hanny had improved a good deal. She seemed to
have grown every way. Her mother was sure she must let her skirts down;
and her last winter's frocks were too tight about the shoulders, and too
short in the sleeves. She had absolutely gained five pounds, and her
little face had rou