She fell asleep with a heart full of thankfulness to God for his mercies.

A quite different view of the matter was taken by other members of the Poe connection in Baltimore—­particularly the men, who positively refused to regard the love affair as anything more than sentimental nonsense—­“moonshine”—­they called it, which would be as fleeting as it was foolish.  Their cousin, Judge Neilson Poe, who had made a pet of Virginia, was especially active in his opposition and brought every argument he could think of to bear upon the young lovers and upon Mrs. Clemm in his endeavor to induce them to break the engagement; but he only succeeded in sending Virginia flying with frightened face to “Buddie’s” arms, vowing (as, much to Cousin Neilson’s disgust, she hung upon his neck) that she would never give him up, while “Buddie,” holding her close, assured her, in the story-book language that they both loved, that “all the king’s horses and all the king’s men” would not be strong enough to take her from him.

CHAPTER XXI.

Midsummer found Edgar Poe in Richmond and regularly at work upon his new duties in the office of The Southern Literary Messenger.  He felt that if he had not actually reached the end of the rainbow, it was at least in sight and it rested upon the place of all others most gratifying to him—­the dear city of his boyhood whose esteem he so ardently desired.  Most soothing to his pride, he found it, after his several ignominious retreats, to return in triumph, a successful author, called to a place of acknowledged distinction, for all its meagre income.

The playmates of his youth—­now substantial citizens of the little capital—­called promptly upon him at his boarding-house.  They were glad to have him back and they showed it; glad of his success and glad and proud to find their early faith in his powers justified, their early astuteness proven.

All Richmond, indeed, received him with open arms and if there were some few persons who could not forget his wild-oats at the University and his seeming ingratitude to Mr. Allan, who they declared had been the kindest and most indulgent of fathers to him, and who did not invite him to their homes or accept invitations to parties given in his honor, they were the losers—­he had friends and to spare.

Yet he was not happy.  The ivy had been torn from the oak and there was no sweet heartsease blossom to make glad his road—­to made daily—­hourly—­offerings to him and him alone of the beauty, physical and spiritual, that his soul worshipped—­of beauty and of unquestioning love and sympathy and approbation.  In other words, The Dreamer was sick, miserably sick, with the disease of longing; longing for the modest home and the invigorating presence of the Mother; longing that was exquisite pain for the sight, the sound, the touch, the daily companionship of the child who without losing one whit of the purity, the innocence, the charm of childhood, had so suddenly, so sweetly become a woman—­a woman embodying all of his dreams—­a woman who lived with no other thought than to love and be loved by him.