At the foot of the steps Edgar Poe paused and looked back at the massive closed door. Never—­nevermore, it seem to say to him.—­Never—­nevermore!

While he had been inside the house one of those sudden changes in the face of nature of which his superstitious soul always made note, had taken place.  A shower from a passing cloud had filled the depressions in the uneven pavement, where before only sunshine lay, with little pools of water, and had left the trees “weeping,” as he fancifully described them to himself.

He walked along the wet streets for a few steps, by the side of the wall that enclosed house and grounds.  Then he paused again and looked over into the dripping garden while he held consultation with himself as to what he should do next.  As he looked the breath of drenched violets greeted his nostrels.  He noticed that the lilacs were coming into blossom.  The fruit trees already stood like brides veiled in their fresh bloom.  The tulip and hyacinth and daffodil beds were gay with color.  How their newly washed faces shone in the sunshine, just then bursting through the clouds!

Near him, just inside the wall, was a bed of lily-of-the-valley.  He was seized with an almost irresistible desire to go down upon his knees by it and search among the glistening green leaves to see if the lilies were in bloom.

But the garden-gate, like the house door, was closed upon him and seemed to repeat the fateful word—­Nevermore.

Whither should he turn his steps?  To Mr. Allan’s office?—­Never!

His intention had been to submit himself to Mr. Allan as far as his self-respect would let him.  To consult him in regard to the literary career he felt himself committed to now that (as he recalled with satisfaction) the bridges between him and any other profession were burnt behind him.  His own plan, upon which he was resolved to ask Mr. Allan’s opinion, would be to seek a position in the line of journalism which would give him a living while he was waiting for his more ambitious work to find buyers.

But since the interview with Mrs. Allan he realized the folly of this dream.

Then, whither should he go?—­To the chums of his boyhood?—­Rob Stanard, Dick Ambler, Rob Sully, Jack Preston, where were they?—­Good, dear friends they had been, but it seemed so long since they had played together!  What should they find to say to each other now?  They were busy with their various avocations and interests—­what room in their hearts and homes could there be for a wanderer like himself?

At the age of one and twenty, at the springtime of his life, as of the year—­he felt himself to be as friendless, as much a stranger in the city which he called home, as Rip Van Winkle after his long sleep had felt in his.  The only spots toward which he could turn with any confidence for sympathy were those two quiet cities within this city where lay his loved and lovely dead—­“The doubly dead in that they died so young.”