Alas, hapless Dreamer!  Did the gleam of those eyes cast alway slightly downward, slightly askance—­give you no discomfort?  Did the fang-like teeth when the thick lips opened to pour forth birthday wishes or streams of uproarious laughter, and the square lines of the jaw, suggest to your ready imagination no hint of cruelty?  If you could but have known that what time he laughed and talked with your guests and feasted at your board, with its tasty viands and its cake with lighted candles, and bent his furtive glance upon the beauty of your guileless Virginia—­if you could but have known that in his black heart the canker jealousy was gnawing and that, behind the smile he wore as a mask, the brainy man was biding his time!

It was a goodly little company—­a coming together of bright wits and (for the most part) of kind hearts, and the talk was crisp, and fresh, and charming.

Supper was served early.

“My wife and her mother have thought that you Penn folk might like to sit down to a Virginia supper,” said the host, as he led Mrs. Graham to the table, and stood for a moment while Virginia designated the seats to be taken.  Then still standing, said,

“Every man a priest to his own household, is our Virginia rule, but as we have with us tonight one who before he took up Letters wore the cloth, I’m going to abdicate in his favor.  Dr. Griswold will you ask a blessing?”

All heads were bowed while the time-honored little ceremonial was performed, then seats were taken and the repast begun.

Virginia presided over the “tea-things,” while Mrs. Clemm occupied the seat nearest the door opening on the kitchen, that she might slip as unobtrusively as possible out and back again when necessary; but most of the serving was done by the guests themselves, each of whom helped the dish nearest his or her plate, and passed the plates from hand to hand.  All of the supper, save the dessert and fresh supplies of hot waffles was on the table.  There were oysters and turkey salad and Virginia ham.  And there were hot rolls and “batter-bread” (made of Virginia meal with plenty of butter, eggs and milk, and a spoonful of boiled rice stirred in) and there was a “Sally Lunn”—­light, brown, and also hot, and plenty of waffles.  In the little spaces between the more important dishes there were pickles and preserves—­stuffed mangoes and preserved quinces and currant jelly.  And in the centre of the table was the beautiful birthday cake frosted by Virginia’s dainty fingers and brilliant with its thirty-three lighted candles.

There was just enough room left for the three slender cut-glass decanters that were relics of Mother Clemm’s better days.

“The decanter before you, Mr. Graham, contains the Madeira; the Canary is before you, Captain Reid, and I have here a beverage with which I am very much in love at present—­apple wine—­” Edgar Poe said, tapping the stopper of a decanter of cider near his plate.