He placed the letter upon the top of a pile in the same handwriting, tied them together with a bit of ribbon and laid them in a small drawer of his desk.  Then, rising, he leaned over the back of “Muddie’s” chair and lightly touching her seamed forehead with his lips replied,

    “Quoth the raven, nevermore!”

Then took up a garland of evergreen which he had been making when the Mother came in with the mail, and set out in the direction of the churchyard with its “legended tomb.”

CHAPTER XXXIII.

Back in Richmond!—­The Richmond he loved best—­Richmond full of sunshine and flowers and the sweet southern social life out of doors, in gardens and porches; Richmond in summertime!

In spite of the changes his observant eye marked as he rattled over the cobblestones toward the “Swan Tavern,” on Broad and Ninth Streets, he almost felt that he was back in boyhood.  It was just such a day, just this time of year, that—­as a lad of eleven—­he had seen Richmond first after his five years absence in England.

How good it was to be back upon the sacred soil!  How sweet the air was, and how beautiful were the roses!  When before, had he seen a magnolia tree in bloom?—­with its dense shade, its dark green shining foliage, and its snow-white blossoms.  Was there anything in the world so sweet as its odor, combined with that of the roses and the other flowers that filled the gardens?  It was worth coming all the way from New York just to see and to smell them.

He caught glimpses of one or two familiar figures as he drove along.  How impatient he was to see his old friends—­everybody—­white and colored, old and young, masculine and feminine.  He could hardly wait to get to the tavern, remove the dust of travel and sally forth upon the round of visits he intended to make.  His spirits went up—­and up, and finally it was Edgar Goodfellow in the flesh who stepped jauntily from the door of “Swan Tavern,” arrayed for hot-weather calling.  In spite of the summer temperature, he looked the personification of coolness and comfort.  The taste of prosperity his lectures had brought him was evident in his modest but spruce apparel.  He had discarded the habitual black cloth for a coat and trousers of white linen (exquisitely laundered by Mother Clemm’s capable and loving hands) which he wore with a black velvet vest for which he had also to thank the Mother and her skilled needle.  A broad-brimmed Panama hat shaded his pale features and the grey eyes, which glowed with happiness.  As with proudly carried head and quick, easy gait, he bore westward up Broad Street, no single person passed him that did not turn to look with admiration upon the handsome, distinguished stranger, and to mentally ask “Who is he?”

It so happened that Jack Mackenzie was the first acquaintance he met.

“Edgar,” he said, as their hands joined in affectionate grasp, “Do you remember once, years ago, I met you in the street and you said you were going to look for the end of the rainbow?  Well, you look as if you had found it!”