“You will have no one but yourself to blame.”

Her ardor undimmed by the chariness of the consent she had gained, she showered the lowering brow with cool, delicate little kisses until it grew smooth in spite of itself.

“Oh, I know I never shall regret it, John,” she cooed.  “He is such a beautiful boy—­so sweet and affectionate, so merry and clever!  Just what I should like our own little boy to be, John, if God had blessed us with one.”

“I grant you he seems a bonny little lad enough, Frances.  But I realize, as it seems you do not, the risk of undertaking to rear as your own the child of any but the most unquestionable parentage.  I confess the thought of introducing into my family the son of professional players is extremely distasteful to me.”

“But John, dear, you know these Poes were not ordinary players.  The father was one of the Maryland Poes and I understand the mother came of good English stock.  She certainly seemed to be a lady and a good, sweet woman, poor thing!  The Mackenzies have decided to adopt the baby Rosalie, though they have children, as you know; and with this charming little Edgar for my very own I shall be the happiest woman alive.”

“Well, well, keep your pretty little pet, but if he turns out to be other than a credit to you, don’t forget that you were warned.”

* * * * *

And so the little Edgar Poe—­the players’ child—­became Edgar Allan, with a fond and admiring young mother who became at once and forever his slave and whose chief object in life henceforth was to stand between him and the discipline of a not intentionally harsh or unkind, but strict and uncompromising father; who though he too was fond of the boy, in a way, and proud of his beauty and little accomplishments, was constantly on the lookout for the cloven foot which his fixed prejudice against the child’s parentage made him certain would appear.

In her delight over her acquisition, Frances Allan was like a child with a new toy.  She almost smothered him with kisses when, accepting her bribe of a spaniel pup and his pockets full of sugar-kisses, he agreed to call her “Mother.”  With her own fingers she made him the quaintest little baggy trousers, of silk pongee, and a velvet jacket, and a tucker of the finest linen.  His cheap cotton stockings were discarded for scarlet silk ones, and for his head, “sunny over with curls” of bright nut-brown, she bought from Mrs. Fipps, the prettiest peaked cap of purple velvet, with a handsome gold tassel that fell gracefully over on one shoulder.  Thus arrayed, she took him about town with her to show him to her friends who were ecstatic in their admiration of his pensive, clear-cut features, his big, grey eyes and his nut-brown ringlets; of his charming smile and the frank, pretty manner in which he gave his small hand in greeting.

“Oh, but you should hear him recite and sing,” the proud foster-mother would say.  “And he can dance, too.”