“How different my life would be if they had lived!” he murmured to the flowers.

Yet how fair was this world in which he had no place—­even to a mere looker-on.  How fair was this mansion, in its setting of April green and bloom, which had once owned him as its young—­its future master.  Above it Hope stretched her shining wings, but the hope was not for him.  For him the closed door and the closed gate said only, “no more—­nevermore.”

But whither should he go?—­whither?

As he turned from the garden and walked slowly, aimlessly, down the street, his great grey eyes fixed ponderingly upon the breaking clouds, a rainbow—­bright symbol of promise—­spanned the heavens.  His eyes widened, his lips parted at the wonder and the beauty and the suddenness of it.

Whither should he go?  Behold an answer meet for a poet!

Whither?—­Whither?—­The dark eyes in the pale cameo face turned skyward—­the eyes of him who had declared himself to be a deep worshipper of all beauty grew more dreamy.  Whither, indeed, but to the end of the rainbow!

By what “path obscure and lonely,” the quest would lead him he knew not, but he would follow it to the bitter end, for there, perchance, he would find if not the traditional pot of gold, at least a wreath of laurel.

As he wandered down the street, his eyes still upon the bow, his dream was suddenly interrupted by the hearty voice of one of his boyhood’s friends, and his sister Rosalie’s adopted brother, Jack Mackenzie.

“Hello, Edgar!” he cried.  “Did you drop from the clouds?  Evidently, for I see your head is still in them.”

He returned the greeting with joy.  How good it was to feel the hand-clasp of friendship and welcome!  He had always liked Jack—­for the moment he loved him.

“And where are you bound—­you and your bag?” asked Jack.  “Not to Mr. Allan’s, for you are going in the wrong direction.”

“No,” replied The Dreamer, with a whimsical smile.  “I was going there, but I found the door shut, so I changed my mind, and had just decided to make the end of the rainbow my destination.”

Jack’s spontaneous laugh rang out.  “The same old Edgar!” he said.  “Well I won’t interfere with your journey except to defer it a bit.  You are going home with me, to ‘Duncan Lodge,’ now—­at least to supper and spend the night; and to stay as much longer as pleases you.  Rose and the rest will be delighted to see you.”

CHAPTER XVIII.

Where was Edgar Poe?  Again the question was being asked.  In many quarters and with varying degrees of interest it was repeated.  But it still remained unanswered.