Henceforth, he felt, his life would be a lonely one, for he now knew that he was different from other boys, all of whom (in his acquaintance) had fathers to whose bounty they had a right—­the right of sonship.  Yes, he was a very big boy (he told himself) and he had not cried when he was flogged, but under the cover of the kindly dark, hot tears of indignation, hurt pride and pity for his own loneliness—­his singularity—­made all his pillow wet.

Comfort came to him from an unexpected source.  The door of his room had been closed, but not latched.  It was now pushed open by “Comrade,” his old spaniel, who made straight for his side, first pushing his nose against his face and then leaping upon the bed and nestling down close to him, with a sigh of satisfaction.  The desolate boy welcomed this dumb, affectionate companionship.  The feel of the warm, soft body, and the thought of the velvety brown eyes which he could not see in the dark, but knew were fixed upon him with their intense, loving gaze, were soothing to his overwrought nerves.  Here was something whose love could be counted upon—­something as dependent upon him as he was upon Mr. Allan; yet what a joy he found in the very dependence of this devoted, soft-eyed creature!  Never would he taunt Comrade with his dependence upon charity.

“No;” he said, his hands deep in the silky coat, “I would not insult a dog as he has insulted me!  Never mind, Comrade, old fellow, we’ll have our swim in the river tomorrow, and he may flog me again if he likes.”

* * * * *

But he was not flogged the next day.  An important business engagement occupied Mr. Allan the whole afternoon, and when he came in late, tired and pre-occupied, he found Edgar fresh and glowing from his exercise in the river, the curls still damp upon his forehead, quietly eating his supper with his mother. She knew, but tender creature that she was, she was prepared to do anything short of fibbing to shield her pet from another out-burst.  But John Allan, still absorbed in business cares, hardly looked toward the boy, and asked not a question.

CHAPTER VI.

The home of the Allans was never quite the same to Edgar Poe after that night.  A wall had been raised between him and his foster-father that would never be scaled.  He was still indulged in a generous amount of pocket money which he invariably proceeded to get rid of as fast as he could—­lavishing it upon the enjoyment of his friends as freely as it had been lavished upon him.  He had plenty of pets and toys, went to dancing school, in which his natural love of dancing made him delight, and was given stiff but merry little parties, at which old Cy, the black fiddler played and called the figures, and the little host and his friends conformed to the strict, ceremonious etiquette observed by the children as well as the grown people of the day.