e, to whom Edgar applied, remembering his former unpaid loan,
making no response to his appeal. This was another great disappointment
to Poe, just as on former occasions his hopes seemed on the point of
realization. Thus, in whatsoever direction he turned, grim poverty faced
and frowned him down. Surely, it was enough to discourage him; and yet
to the end of his life he eagerly followed this illusive hope.

Mrs. Clemm, too, who had in this time been trying to support the family
by keeping a boarding-house, also met with her disappointments. For some
reason her boarders never remained long with her, and the family, who
had removed to obscure lodgings on Amity street, now found themselves in
one of their frequent seasons of poverty and distress.

CHAPTER XX.

POE AND MRS. OSGOOD.

It was a fortunate day when Mrs. Clemm, hunting about the suburbs of the
great city for a cheap place of abode, discovered the little cottage at
Fordham, a country railroad station some miles from New York.

It was but an humble place at best, an old cottage of four rooms, in
ill-repair; but the rent was low, the situation--on the summit of a
rocky knoll--pleasant, affording fine views of the Harlem river; and
there was pure air, plenty of outdoor space, and that famous cherry
tree, now, in the month of May, in full and fragrant bloom. A few
repairs were made, and Mrs. Clemm's vigorous hands, with the assistance
of soap and water and whitewash, soon transformed the neglected abode
into a miracle of neatness and order. Checked matting hid the worn
parlor floor, and the cheap furniture which they had brought with them
looked better here than ever it had done in the cramped and stuffy
rooms of the city. Outside a neglected rose-bush was trained against the
wall, supplying Virginia with roses in its season. Her room was above
the parlor, at the head of a narrow staircase; a low-ceiled apartment,
with sloping walls and small, square windows; and it was here at a desk
or table near his wife's sick bed that most of Poe's writing was now
done.

In the preceding winter Virginia's health had apparently greatly
improved, and her illness was not of so serious a nature as to confine
her entirely to the house or to interfere with the social or literary
engagements of her husband, who was, as poet, lecturer, editor and
critic, at the zenith of his fame. In this time he had attended the
_soirees_ of Miss Lynch and others of the literary class, onc