CHAPTER XXVI.

It was a very modest party, but a merry one.  The ground was covered with the unsullied whiteness of new-fallen snow and the coming of most of the guests was heralded by the tintinnabulation of the little silver bells so charming to the ear of the host.

The Grahams were among the first to be welcomed out of the frosty night into the glow of lamp and candle and firelight, by the cordial hand and voice of Edgar Goodfellow.  Mr. Graham was in tune to most heartily take part in the commemoration of the birthday of the man who was making Graham’s Magazine the success of the publishing world in America.  His kindling blue eyes had never been kinder, his smile never more bland.  Mr. Alexander, founder of The Saturday Evening Post which so gladly published and paid for everything that Edgar Poe would spare it from Graham’s was the next, and close following him, Mr. Cottrell Clarke, first editor of the Post, and his charming wife.  Captain and Mrs. Mayne Reid, who were among the most admiring and affectionate friends of the Poe trio were also there, and other congenial spirits.

They came in twos and threes, their laughter as light and clear as the tinkle of their sleigh-bells.

And Rufus Griswold was there.  The Dreamer with his deep reverence for intellectual ability had a sincere admiration for Dr. Griswold—­though he did say he was “no poet.”  He desired the approval—­the friendship—­of this brainy man and was proud and happy to have him of his party.

Coming in after the rest of the company had assembled, the brainy man’s big frame, topped by his big head, with his prominent brow and piercing eyes, his straight, thick nose, his large full-lipped close-set mouth, his square jaw with the fringe of beard sharply outlining it, produced a decided effect.  He seemed to fill up a surprisingly large portion of the room.  Instinctively, the gentleman who had occupied the largest and heaviest chair vacated it and invited him to be seated in it—­which he did, instinctively.  He was a young man—­under thirty—­but looked much older.  His face was a strange one.  It could not have been called ugly.  By some, indeed, it was considered handsome.  It was strong, but it was strange.  There was an indefinable something unpleasant, something to awaken distrust—­fear—­about it.  Across the dome of the brow ran, horizontally, a series of wavy furrows that produced, in place of the benevolent air the lofty brow might have given, a sinister expression.  The eyes beneath the wrinkled brow were piercing and spoke of the fire of active mentality, but they were always downcast and turned slightly askance, so that few people caught the full force of their gleam, and there was sternness and coldness, as well as will, in the prominent chin and jaw.