The discovery of his identity had greatly increased the good Doctor’s interest and he and the officers of the fort were of the opinion that as young Poe had made a model soldier (having been promoted to the rank of sergeant-major, for good conduct) the best thing that could be done for him was to secure his discharge and get him an appointment to West Point.  This, Mr. Allan could bring about, he thought, through men of influence whose friendship the Doctor knew he enjoyed.  Edgar had enlisted for five years.  He had confessed that at the time he had been almost upon the point of starvation and had turned to the army when every effort to find other means of livelihood had failed.

The Doctor and other officers thought that it would be a great sacrifice to leave a young gentleman of Edgar’s abilities to three more years of such uncongenial life.

He was quite recovered and in accordance with a promise made the Doctor, was writing to Mr. Allan at that moment.

“Did Eddie’s letter come too?” Mrs. Allan asked, as she finished the one in her hand.

Without a word, her husband handed it over to her.  In it Edgar expressed much contrition for the trouble which his larger experience in life told him he had cost his foster-father, and asked his forgiveness.  He also asked that Mr. Allan would follow the suggestion of Dr. Archer, and apply for a discharge from the army for him, and an appointment to West Point.

He had not written his “Mother” in the past because he had unfortunately nothing to tell which he believed could give her any pleasure, but he sent her his undying love.

Frances Allan looked through wet lashes into her husband’s face, but her eyes were shining through the tears.

“Oh, John,” she said breathlessly, “You will have him to come and make us a little visit before he goes to West Point, won’t you?”

“I’ll have nothing to do with him!” was the emphatic reply.  “He seems to be getting along very well where he is.  Let him stick it out!”

Feeling how vain her pleadings would be, yet not willing to give up hope, she wept, she prayed, she hung upon John Allan’s neck.  She brought every argument that starved motherhood could conceive to bear upon him.

To think that Eddie was in Virginia—­just down at Old Point!  The cup of joy was too near her lips to let it pass without a mighty effort.  But finally she gave up and shrank within herself, drooping like the palest of lilies.

Then came a day when a stillness such as it had never known before hung over the Allan home.  The garden was at its fairest.  The halls and the drawing-rooms, with their rich furnishings and works of art were as beautiful as ever; but there was not even a bereaved mother, with an expression on her face like that of Mary at the foot of the cross, to tread the lonely floors.  The luxurious rooms were quite, quite empty—­all save one—­an upper chamber, where upon a stately carved and canopied bed lay all that was mortal of Frances Allan, like a lily indeed, when pitiless storm has laid it low!