“This is very good of you, Mr. Graham,” he said, his low, musical voice, warm with feeling.  “Your offer places me upon firm ground once more.  To be frank with you, the failure, through lack of capital, of my attempt to establish a magazine of my own (since the severing of my connection with Burton, which gave me my only regular income) has left me hanging by the eyelids, as it were, and I have been wondering how long I could hold on with only the small, irregular sums coming in from the sale of my stories to depend upon.  Your offer at this time means more to me than I can express.”

His girl-wife stole to his side and with pretty grace, unembarrassed by the presence of Mr. Graham, leaned over his chair and pressed her lips upon his brow.

“But you know, Buddie,” she murmured in a voice that was like a dove’s, “I always told you something would come along!”

* * * * *

Darkness fell and lamps were lighted, and still Mr. Graham sat on and on as though too fascinated by the charm of the little circle to move.  To his own surprise he found himself accepting the invitation to remain to supper.  The simple table was beautiful with the dainty touch of Mother Clemm and Virginia, and the very frugality of the meal seemed a virtue.

After supper his host, not the least of whose accomplishments was the rare one of reading aloud acceptably, was persuaded to read some of his own poems—­Mr. Graham asking for certain special pieces.  Among these were the lines “To Helen,” which were recited with a fervor approaching solemnity.

“Tell him about Helen, Eddie,” murmured Virginia, who sat by his side.

“Yes, do tell me!” urged Mr. Graham, quickly.  And with his eyes brooding and dreamy, the poet went over, in touching and beautiful words, the story of what he always felt and declared to be “the first pure passion of his soul.”

In the silence that followed he arose and took from the wall a small picture—­a pencil-sketch of a lovely head.

“This is a drawing of her made by myself,” he said.  “It was done from memory, but is a good likeness.  I needed no sitting to make her likeness.”

When he had shown Mr. Graham the picture, he hung it back in its place and a gentle hush fell upon the little group.  Speech seemed out of place after the moving recital and the four sat gazing into the embers, each sunk in his or her own dreams.

The poet was the first to speak.

“Some music Sissy,” he said turning to Virginia.  “I want Mr. Graham to hear you.”

She arose at once and seating herself at the harp, struck some soft, bell-like chords while she waited for “Buddie” to decide what she should sing.

“Let it be something sweet and low,” he said, “and simple.  Something of Tom Moore’s, for instance.  You know my theory, anything but the simplest music to be appreciated—­to reach the soul—­must be heard alone.”