“I have,” was the reply.  “An hour ago.  It was here in Richmond all the time and I didn’t know it, and like a poor fool, have been wandering the world over in a vain search for it.  The trouble is, I was looking for the wrong thing.  I was looking for fame and fortune, thought of which blinded my eyes to something far better—­scenes and friendships of lang syne.  Jack—­” he continued, as—­arm in arm—­the two friends made their way up the street.  “Jack, life is a great schoolmaster, but why does it take so long to drub any sense into these blockheads of ours?”

“Damned if I know,” replied his companion, who was more truthful always than either poetic or philosophic, “but if you mean that you’ve decided to come back to Richmond to live, I’m mighty glad to hear it.”

“That’s what I mean.  I came only for a visit and to lecture, but made up my mind on the way from the depot to come for good as soon as I can arrange to do so.  I think it was a magnolia tree in bloom—­the first I had seen in many a year—­that decided me.”

“Well, all of your old friends will be glad to have you back; there’s one in particular that I might mention.  Do you remember Elmira Royster?  She’s a comely widow now, with a comfortable fortune, and she’s always had a lingering fondness for you.  I advise you to hunt her up.”

The Dreamer’s face clouded.

“Women are angels, Jack,” he said.  “They are the salt that will save this world, if it is to be saved, and for poor sinners like me there would be simply no hope in either this world or the next but for them; but they will have no more part in my life, save as friends.  A true friend of mine, however, I believe Myra is.  I saw her during my brief visit here last fall.—­Ah, Rob! my boy!  Howdy!”

The two friends had turned into Sixth Street and as they drew near the corner of Sixth and Grace, almost ran into Rob Stanard—­now a prominent lawyer and one of the leading gentlemen of the town.

“Eddie Poe, as I’m alive!” he exclaimed, with a hearty hand-clasp.  “My, my, what a pleasure!  I’m on my way home to dinner, boys.  Come in, both of you and take pot-luck with us.  My wife will be delighted to see you!”

The invitation was accepted as naturally as it was given, and the three mounted together the steps of the beautiful house and were received in the charmingly homelike drawing-room opening from the wide hall, by Rob’s wife, a Kentucky belle who had stepped gracefully into her place as mistress of one of the notable homes in Virginia’s capital.  As she gave her jewelled hand to Edgar Poe her handsome black eyes sparkled with pleasure.  She was not only sincerely glad to receive the friend of her husband’s boyhood, but keen appreciation of intellectual gifts made her feel that to know him was a distinction.  Some of the servants who had known “Marse Eddie” in the old days were still of the household—­having come to Robert Stanard as part of his father’s estate—­and they were to their intense gratification, pleasantly greeted by the visitor.