More than one pair of eyes turned to see the owner of the fine tenor voice that joined in the singing of the hymns, and resting for a moment upon the dark, uplifted eyes of Edgar Poe, caught a glimpse of something not of this earth.

As he left the church and churchyard, he noted many changes in its immediate neighborhood but the only one upon which his eye lingered was a smug brick house of commodious proportions and genteel aspect.  A pleasant green yard afforded space for a few trees and flowers.  A dignified and prosperous, but not in the least romantic house it was.  A house with no rambling wings giving opportunities for winding passageways and odd nooks and corners; no unexpected closets where skeletons might be in hiding, or dusky stairways to creak in the dead of night, or upon which, even by day, one was almost certain he caught a glimpse of a shadowy figure flying before him as he groped his way up or down them.  A house with no mysteries—­just the house in which one might have expected to find Elmira Royster who, as the Widow Shelton, the prudent housewife and good manager of a prosperous estate, was simply the frank, clear-eyed girl he had known, grown older.

He would call upon Elmira sometime, but not now little son, so that she could only use the income, was duly signed and sealed.  The wedding ring was bought.

With visions of a new start in life, of which there were many happy years in store for him (why not?—­He was only forty!) The Dreamer set out on his way back to Fordham to settle up his affairs and bring Mother Clemm to Richmond to witness his marriage and to take up her abode with him and his bride, in the brick house on the hill.  He had been upon a holiday, but he carried with him a goodly sum of money realized from his lectures, and a long list of subscribers to The Stylus.  Surely, Fortune had never shown him a more smiling face!

* * * * *

Baltimore!—­

Why did his way lie through Baltimore?  Baltimore, with its memories of Virginia—­Baltimore where he had come up out of the grave to the heaven of her love, and where had been first constructed the most beautiful of all his dreams—­the dream of the Valley of the Many-Colored Grass, in which he and she and the Mother had lived for each other only!

In Baltimore again he found his way stopped by the vision of “a legended tomb.”  It was paralyzing!  He could go no further upon his journey, but lingered in Baltimore, wandering the streets like one bereft.

The words—­the prophetic words—­of his own poem “To One in Paradise,” haunted him: 

    “A voice from out the future cries,
      ‘On! on!’ But o’er the Past
    (Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies
      Mute, motionless, aghast!”

And again, the words of his “Bridal Ballad”—­more prophetic still: 

    “Would to God I could awaken! 
      For I dream I know not how;
    And my soul is sorely shaken
    Lest an evil step be taken,—­
    Lest the dead who is forsaken
      May not be happy now.”