How dark the woe!—­how sublime the hope!—­how intense the pride!—­how daring the ambition!—­how deep, how fathomless the capacity for love!—­that looked (as from a window) from those eyes upturned in sorrow, in the moonlight while all the town slept!

Who was she?—­this lady of sorrows.  And by what sweet name was she known to the citizens of this old town?—­Surely Fate that had brought her to the bank of violets beneath the moon—­Fate that had led him to her garden gate, would in Fate’s own time reveal!

* * * * *

As Helen Whitman flitted as noiselessly as the ghost she seemed to be up the dark stairway to her chamber, and without closing the casement that admitted the moonlight and the garden’s odors, lay down upon her canopied bed, she trembled.  What was it that she had been aware of in the garden?—­that presence—­that consciousness of communion between her spirit and his upon whom all her thoughts had dwelt of late?  Herself a poet, from her earliest knowledge of the work of Edgar Poe she had seemed to feel a kinship between her mind and his such as she had known in regard to no other.  She had followed his career step by step, and out of the many sorrows of her own life had been born deep sympathy for him.  Since his last, greatest blow, she had more than ever mourned with him in spirit, for she too was widowed—­she too had sat upon the Rock of Desolation and knew the Silence and the Solitude.

She and The Dreamer had at least one mental trait in common—­a tendency toward spiritualism—­a more than half belief in the communion of the spirits of the dead with those of the living and of those of the living with each other.

What had led her into the moonlit garden when all the world slept?

She knew not.  She only knew that she had felt an impelling influence—­a call to her spirit—­to come out among the slumbering roses.  She had not questioned nor sought to define it.  She had heard it, and she had obeyed.  And then the presence!—­

She had never seen Edgar Poe, yet she felt that he had been there in the spirit, if not in the flesh—­she had felt his eyes upon her eyes and she had half expected him to step from the shadows around her and to say,

“I, upon whom your thoughts have dwelt—­I, who am the comrade and the complement of your inner life—­I, whose spirit called to you ere you came into the garden—­I am here.”

* * * * *

It was almost immediately upon The Dreamer’s return to Fordham, and when he was still under the spell of the night at Providence, that the identity of the lady of the garden was revealed to him, in a manner seemingly accidental, but which he felt to be but another manifestation of the divinity that shapes our ends.  Some casual words concerning the appearance and character of Mrs. Whitman, spoken by a casual visitor, lifted the curtain.