d much to regret. He loved Richmond--loved it for the joy and pain
he had felt in it; for the dreams he had dreamed in it. He loved it
exceedingly for the two dear graves, one in the churchyard on the hill
and one in the new cemetery, that held his beloved dead.

Yes, he was sorry to leave this _home_-city, if not of his birth, at
least of his childhood and early youth, and his soul was still shaken by
the scene with his foster-parents through which he had just passed. But
in spite of all, his heart--rejoicing in the nearness of the freedom for
which he had so fiercely longed, sang, and stilled his sorrow.

But a few weeks had passed since his return from the University. A few
weeks? They seemed to him years, and each one had left a feeling of
increased age upon his spirit.

The home-coming had not been altogether unhappy--humiliating as it was.
In spite of the black looks of his foster-father, the little mother
(bless her!) had welcomed him with out-stretched arms and eyes beaming
with undimmed love. Never had she been more tenderly sweet and dear. She
had given the most beautiful Christmas party, with all his best friends
invited, and everything just as she knew he would like it. Her husband
had frowningly consented to this, but her tears and entreaties were all
of no avail to win his consent for the boy's return to college. Vainly
had she plead his talents which she believed should be cultivated, and
the injustice (since they had voluntarily assumed the responsibility of
rearing him) of cutting short his education at such an early age. John
Allan was adamant.

And so, after the holidays, he had taken his place in the counting-house
of "Ellis and Allan."

Distasteful as the new work was to the young poet, he was determined to
stick to it, and would probably have done so, but the strict
surveillance he soon realized he was under (as if he could not be
trusted!) and the manner of Mr. Allan who rarely spoke to him except
when it was absolutely necessary, and seemed to regard him as a hopeless
criminal, would have been unbearable to a far less proud and sensitive
nature than Edgar Poe's. Both at the office and at home, Mr. Allan's
narrow, steel-colored eyes seemed to keep constant watch, under their
beetling brows, for faults or blunders; and it seemed to the driven boy
that no matter what he did or said, he should have done or said just the
reverse. He felt constantly that a storm was brewing which must sooner
or la