Still, with his post as editor of Graham’s and the frequency with which his signature was seen in other magazines, he was making a living.  The howl of the wolf or his sickening scratching at the door were no more heard, and in the Valley of the Many-Colored Grass the three dreamers laughed together, and in the streets of the “City of Brotherly Love” Edgar Goodfellow whistled a gay air, or arm in arm with some boon companion of the “Press gang” threaded his way in and out among of the human stream, with a smile on his lips and the light of gladness in living in his eyes.

And why should he not be happy? he asked himself.  He had the snuggest little home in the world and, in it, the loveliest little wife in the world and the dearest mother in the world.  He was upon the top of the wave of prosperity.  His fame was growing—­had already reached France, where “The Murders” were still being talked about.  Why should he not be happy?  His devils had ceased to plague him this long while.  The blues—­he was becoming a stranger to them.  The Imp—­he had not had a single glimpse of him during the year.  He was temperate—­ah, therein lay man’s safety and happiness!  By strict abstinence his capacity for enjoyment was exalted—­purified.  He would let the cup forever alone—­upon that he was resolved!

This was not always easy.  Sometimes it had been exceedingly hard and there had been a fierce battle between himself and the call that was in his blood—­the thirst, not for the stuff itself, but for its effects, for the excitement, the exhilaration; but he had won every time and he felt stronger for the battle and for the victory—­the victory of will.  “Man doth not yield himself to the angels or to death utterly” (he quoted) “save only through the weakness of his feeble will.”  Upon continued resistence—­continued victory—­he was resolved, and in the resolution he was happy.

Best of all, Virginia was happy, and “Muddie”—­dear, patient “Muddie!” The two women chatted like magpies over their sewing or house-work, or as they watered the flowers.  They, like himself, had made friends.  Neighbors dropped in to chat with them or to borrow a pattern, or to hear Virginia sing.  And they had had a long visit from the violet-eyed Eliza White.  What a pleasure it had been to have the sweet, fair creature with them! (He little guessed how tremulously happy the little Eliza had been to bask for a time in his presence—­just to be near the great man—­and meanwhile guard all the more diligently the secret that filled her white soul and kept her, for all her beauty and charm, and her many suitors, a spinster).

Eliza had brought them a great budget of Richmond news.  It had been like a breath of spring to hear it.  She talked and they listened and they all laughed together from pure joy.  How Virginia’s laugh had rippled out upon the air—­it filled all the cottage with music!

It was mid-January, and he sat gazing into the rose-colored heart of the open coal fire going over it all—­the whole brilliant, full year.