d their material wants but with kind
and encouraging words as well. With a sufficient competence and the
medical education given her by her father, she was enabled thus to
devote herself to the service of those who could not afford the
attendance of a regular physician.

Not only did she supply them with medicine, but with careful nursing and
proper food prepared by her own hands in Mrs. Clemm's little kitchen.
Mrs. Gove collected sixty dollars, with which their other wants were
supplied; so that during the months of November and December the family
were more comfortably situated than was usual with them. But meantime
Virginia rapidly declined, until it became evident that her frail life
was very near its close.

On the day before her death Poe, in mortal dread of that awful _shadow_
which had been so long in its approach and now stood upon their
threshold, wrote urgently to Mrs. Shew to come and pass the night with
them. "My poor Virginia still lives, though failing fast." She came, in
time to take leave of the dying wife.

One of Poe's biographers[7] has stated that on the day previous to Mrs.
Poe's death she requested Mrs. Shew to read two letters from the second
Mrs. Allen exonerating Poe from having ever caused a difficulty in her
house. To those who knew Mrs. Allan and had heard from herself and her
family the frequent accounts of that occurrence--accounts never
retracted by her to her dying day--this statement is not worth a
moment's consideration. The only question is, Who wrote those letters,
and how is it that they were never made public or again heard of? And
who could have imposed upon the dying woman a task such as this, instead
of themselves taking the responsibility?

[7] Ingraham.

From this incident, if the account be true, it would appear that
Virginia was gentle, obedient and submissive to the last. On the day
following--January 3, 1847--her innocent, childlike spirit passed away
from earth.

She was in the twenty-sixth year of her age.

CHAPTER XXIII.

MRS. SHEW.

With the death of his wife a great horror and gloom fell upon Poe. The
blow which he had for years dreaded had at length fallen. That which he
had feared and loathed above all things--the monster, Death--had entered
his home and made it desolate. As a poet, he could delight in writing
about the death of the young and lovely, but from the dread reality he
shrank with an almost superstitious horror and loathing. It was s