To imagine himself rescuing from a dark prison tower, hid in a deep wood, or from a watery grave in a black and rock-bound lake, at midnight, some lovely maiden whose every thought and heart-beat would thenceforth be for him alone—­this became the entrancing inward vision of Edgar the Dreamer—­the poet—­the lover, at whom Edgar Goodfellow with whisper as insistent as the voice of Conscience, scoffed and sneered, seeking to make him ashamed; but all in vain.

Of course it was to follow, as the night the day, that the boy would find someone in whom to dress his ideal.  Upon a Sunday soon after his falling in love, he saw the very maiden of his dreams in the flesh.  It was in the Gothic church.  From the remote pew in the gallery where he sat with his school-mates, he looked down upon a wonderful vision of white and gold in one of the principal pews of the main aisle.  Clad all in white and with a shower of golden tresses falling over her shoulders, she was like a glorious lily or a holy angel.  Her eyes, uplifted in the rapture of worship, he divined, rather than saw, were of the hue of heaven itself.  He loved her at once, with all his soul’s might.  Her name?  Her home?  These were mysteries—­sacred mysteries—­whose unfathomableness but added to her charm.

After that, service in the Gothic church was a much more important event to The Dreamer than before—­an event looked forward to with trembling from Sunday to Sunday.  After that too, upon his periodical week-day walks with the school, he would look up at the quaint old homesteads they passed, with their hedged gardens, ivied walls and sweet-scented shrubberies, and try to guess which was the house-wonderful in which she dwelt.  Then suddenly, one sweet May afternoon, he discovered it.

It was, as was fitting, the most antique, the most distinguished mansion of them all.  He saw her through the bars of the stately entrance gate as she sat beside her mother, on a garden-seat, tying into nosegays the flowers that filled her lap.  Stupified by the shock of the discovery, he stood rooted to the ground, letting his school-mates go on ahead of him.  She was much nearer him than she had been in the dusky church, and upon closer view, she seemed even more lovely, more flower-like, more angelic than ever before.  He stared upon her face with a gaze so compelling that she looked up and smiled at him; then, with sudden impulse, gathered her flowers in her apron, and running forward, handed him through the gate, a fragrant, creamy bud that she happened at the moment to have in her hand.

As in a dream, he stretched his fingers for it.  He tried to frame an expression of thanks, but his lips were dry and though they moved, no sound came.  She had returned at once to her seat beside her mother, and the voice of the usher (who had just missed him) sharply calling to him to “Come on!” was in his ears.  He hurried forward, trembling in all his limbs.  Twice he stumbled and nearly fell.  The bud, he had quickly hidden within his jacket—­it was too holy a thing for the profane eyes of his school-fellows to look upon.