his head more proudly—­wore a new dignity which his friends attributed entirely to the success of his work upon the magazine.  He was filled with peace and good will to all the world.  He was happy and wanted everybody else to be happy—­it was apparent in himself and in his work.  In his dreamy moods his fancy spread a broader, a stronger wing, and soared with new daring to heights unexplored before.  When Edgar Goodfellow was in the ascendency he threw himself with unwonted zest into the pleasures that were “like poppies spread” in the way of the successful author and editor—­the literary lion of the town.

He had always been an enthusiastic and graceful dancer and now nothing else seemed to give him so natural a vent for the happiness that was beating in his veins.  His feet seemed like his pen, to be inspired.  He felt that he could dance till Doomsday and all the prettiest, most bewitching girls let him see how pleased they were to have him for a partner.  In the brief, glowing rests between the dances he rewarded them with charming talk, and verses in praise of their loveliness which seemed to fall without the slightest effort from his tongue into their pretty, delighted ears or from his pencil into their albums.

There was at least one fair damsel—­a slight, willowy creature with violet eyes and flaxen ringlets, who treasured the graceful lines he dedicated to her with a feeling warmer than friendship.  She was pretty Eliza White, the daughter of his employer, the owner of the Southern Literary Messenger.  She was herself a lover of poetry and romance, and a dreamer of dreams, all of which had erelong merged into one sweet dream so secret, so sacred that she scarce dared own it to her own inner self, and its central figure was her father’s handsome assistant editor, who rested in blissful ignorance of the havoc he was making in her maiden heart, engrossed as he was in his own secret—­his own romance.

New energy, new zest, new life seemed to have entered his blood.  He had endless capacity for work as well as for pleasure and could write all day and dance half the night and then lie awake star-gazing the other half and rise ready and eager for the day’s work in the morning.  Such a tonic—­such a stimulant did his love for his faraway bride and his consciousness of her love for him prove.

He was happy—­very, very happy, but he desired to be happier still.  The simple, beautiful words of the old, old rite uttered in the dim, empty church had woven an invisible bond between him and the maiden whom he loved to call in his heart his wife though the time when he could claim her before the world was not yet.

The miracle that this bond wrought in him was a revelation to him.  Was the priest a wizard?  Did the words of the ancient rite possess any intrinsic power of enchantment undreamed of by the uninitiated?

He had not believed it possible for mortal to love more wholly—­more madly than he had loved the little Virginia before that sacred ceremony, but after it he knew there were heights of love of which he had not hitherto had a glimpse.  Just the right to say to his heart “She is my own—­my wife—­” made her tenfold more precious than she had ever been before, but it also made the separation tenfold harder to bear—­made it beyond his power to bear!