cure or too fantastic. They admitted him to a
magic world in which he sat spell-bound until silence brought him back
to his tiny bare shop which seemed suddenly to have been glorified.

"It is wonderful--_wonderful_!" he breathed.

He began to picture himself as not only sharing the wealth, but the fame
which the publication of these gems was bound to bring. But he had to
explain that he was poor, and that he could not bring out the poems
without financial aid. The money which had been given Edgar to set out
in the world with, was already dwindling, but he managed to subscribe a
sum which Thomas declared would be sufficient, with the little he
himself could add, for the printing of a modest edition, in a very
modest garb.

CHAPTER XIV.

In the Allan mansion, in Richmond, there was a stillness that was
oppressive. No young foot-falls sounded upon the stair; no boyish
laughter rang out in rooms or hall. There were handsome and formal
dinners occasionally, when some elderly, distinguished stranger was
entertained, but there were no more merry dancing parties, with old Cy
playing the fiddle and calling the figures.

Frances Allan, fair and graceful still, though looking somewhat out of
health and "broken," as her friends remarked to one another, trod softly
about the stately rooms with no song on her lip, no gladness in her
step. Her husband was grown suddenly prematurely old and his speech was
less frequent and harsher than before. He was more immersed in business
than ever and was prospering mightily, but the fact seemed to bring him
no satisfaction. Even the old servants had lost much of their mirth.
Their black faces were grown solemn and their tread heavy. They looked
with awe upon their mistress when, as frequently happened, they saw her
quietly enter "Marse Eddie's" room and close the door behind her.

In that room and there alone, the fair, gentle, woful creature gave free
reign to the grief of her stricken mother-heart. The room was kept just
as her boy had left it, for she constantly hoped against hope that he
would return. Hers was the aching, pent-up grief of a mother whose child
is dead, yet she is denied the solace of mourning.

Here was the bed which had pillowed his dear, sunny ringlets. Here were
his favorite chair--his desk--his books. In a little trunk against the
wall were his toys with some of the pretty clothes made with her own
fingers, in which it had been her pride to dress him when h