The harp accompaniment rippled forth, and in a moment more melted into the rich, sweet passionate tones of her voice as she told in musical numbers a heart-breaking story of love and parting.

Ballad after ballad followed while the little audience sat entranced.  Finally when the singer returned to her seat by the side of her husband, the conversation turned upon music.  Mr. Graham commented upon his host’s theory that all music but the simplest should, for its best effect, be listened to in solitude.

“Yes,” said The Dreamer, “It is (like the happiness felt in the contemplation of natural scenery) much enhanced by seclusion.  The man who would behold aright the glory of God as expressed in dark valleys, gray rocks, waters that silently smile and forests that sigh in uneasy slumbers, and the proud, watchful mountains that look down upon all—­the man that would not only look upon these with his natural eye but feed his soul upon them as a sacrament, must do so in solitude.  And so too, I hold, should one listen to the deep harmonies of music of the highest class.”

At length the hour came when Mr. Graham felt that he must tear himself away—­bring this strange visit to an end.  Before going he felt moved by an impulse to express something of the effect it had had upon him.

“Mr. Poe,” he said, “I wish to thank you for one of the most delightful evenings of my life and for having taken me into the heart of your home.  I can find no words in which to express my appreciation.  Tonight, at your fireside, it seems to me that I have had for the first time in my life a clear understanding of the word happiness.”

Edgar Poe smiled, dreamily.

“Why should we not be happy here?” he answered.  “Concerning happiness, my dear Mr. Graham, I have a little creed of my own.  If I could only persuade others to adopt it there would be more happy people—­far more contented ones—­in the world.”

“And the articles of your creed?” queried Mr. Graham.

“Are only four.  First, free exercise in the open air, and plenty of it.  This brings health—­which is a kind of happiness in itself—­that attainable by any other means is scarcely worth the name.  Second, love of woman.  I need not tell you that my life fulfils that condition.” (As he spoke, his eyes, with an expression of ineffable tenderness, wandered for a moment—­and it seemed involuntarily—­in the direction of his wife).  “The third condition is contempt for ambition.  Would that I could tell you that I have attained to that!  When I do, there will be little in this world to be desired by me.  The fourth and last is an object of unceasing pursuit.  This is the most important of all, for I believe that the extent of one’s happiness is in proportion to the spirituality of this object.  In this I am especially fortunate, for no more elevating pursuit exists, I think, than that of systematically endeavoring to bring to its highest perfection the art of literature.”