In these fascinating flights into the realms of flirtation, as in other things, Edgar’s friends acknowledged his superiority—­his romantic personal beauty and his gift for rhyming giving him a decided advantage over them all; but they acknowledged it without jealousy, for there was much of hero worship in their attitude toward him, and they were not only perfectly contented for him to be first in every way but it would have disappointed them for him not to be.  The captivating charm of his presence, in his gay moods, made it unalloyed happiness for them to be with him.  They were always ready to follow him as far as he led in daring adventure—­ready to fetch and carry for him and glowing with pride at the least notice from him.

Some boys would have taken advantage of this state of things, but not so Edgar Goodfellow.  He, for his part, was always ready to contribute to their pleasure, and fairly sunned himself in the unstinting love and praise of these boys who admired, while but half divining his gifts.  Their games had twice the zest when Eddie played with them—­he threw himself into the sport with such heartfelt zeal that they were inspired to do their best.  Many a ramble in the woods and fields around Richmond he took with them, telling them the most wonderful stories as he went along; but sometimes, quite suddenly, during these outings, Edgar Goodfellow would give place to Edgar the Dreamer and they would wonderingly realize that his thoughts were off to a world where none of them could follow—­none of them unless it were Rob Sully, who was himself something of a dreamer, and could draw as well as Edgar.

The transformation would be respected.  His companions would look at him with something akin to awe in their eyes and tell each other in low tones not to disturb Eddie, he was “making poetry,” and confine their chatter to themselves, holding rather aloof from the young poet, who wandered on with the abstracted gaze of one walking in sleep—­with them, but not of them.

There were other, less frequent, times when his mood was as much respected, when added to the awe there was somewhat of distress in their attitude toward him.  At these times he was not only abstracted, but a deep gloom would seem to have settled upon his spirit.  Without apparent reason, melancholy claimed him, and though he was still gentle and courteous, they had a nameless sort of fear of him—­he was so unlike other boys and it seemed such a strange thing to be unhappy about nothing.  It was positively uncanny.

At these times they did not even try to be with him.  They knew that he could wrestle with what he called his “blue devils” more successfully alone.  A restlessness generally accompanied the mood, and he would wander off by himself to the churchyard, the river, or the woods; or spend whole long, golden afternoons shut up in his room, poring over some quaint old tale, or writing furiously upon a composition of his own.  When he looked at the boys, he did not