As the door was opened a flood of music floated out.  A divinely sweet mezzo-soprano voice was singing to the accompaniment of a harp.  As the master of the house flung wide the sitting-room door and announced the visitor, the sounds ceased, but the musician sat with her hands resting upon the gilded strings for a moment, her eyes turned in inquiry toward the door, then rose and with the simplicity of a child came forward to place her hand in that of Mr. Graham.  Mother Clemm who sat near the window with a piece of sewing in her lap also arose, and with gentle dignity came forward to be introduced and to do her part in making the guest welcome.

As he took the seat proffered him and entered upon the exchange of commonplace phrases with which a visit of a comparative stranger is apt to begin, Mr. Graham’s blue eyes gathered in the details of the reposeful picture of which he had become a part.  The open fire, the sunshine lying on the bare but spotless floor, the vases filled with flowers, the few simple pieces of furniture so fitly disposed that they produced a sense of unusual completeness and satisfaction—­the row of books, the harp, the cat dosing upon the hearth,—­and finally, the people.  The master of the house—­distinguished, handsome, dominant, genial, his young wife, the embodiment of soft, poetic beauty, and the mother with her saint-like face and gentle, composed manner—­her expressive hands busy with her needle work.  Was it possible that such a home—­such a household—­was always there, keeping the even tenor of its way among the unpicturesque conventions of the modern world?

After the first formalities had been exchanged he had delicately intimated that he had come on business, but he soon began to see that whatever his business might be it was to be dispatched right there, in the bosom of the family.  This was irregular and unusual, yet, somehow, it did not seem unnatural, and he found that the presence of the women of the poet’s household was not the least restraint upon the freedom of their discussion.

After some words of commendation of the story, “The Man of the Crowd,” which he accepted for the next number of his magazine, he came to the real business of the afternoon.

“Mr. Poe,” said he, “I believe you know that with the new year The Gentleman’s Magazine and The Casket will be combined to form Graham’s Magazine which it is my intention to make the best monthly, in contributed articles and editorial opinion, in this country.  Mr. Poe I want an editor capable of making it this. I want you. What do you say to undertaking it?”

As he sat with his eyes fixed upon The Dreamer’s eyes waiting for an answer he could not see the quick clasping of the widow’s hands the uplifting of her expressive face which plainly said “Thank God,” or the sudden illumination in the soft eyes of Virginia.  But the transformation in the beautiful face of the man before him held him spell-bound.  Edgar Poe’s great eyes were glowing with sudden pleasure the curves of his mouth grew sweet, his whole countenance softened.