triumphs as his wife was of his pretty parlor accomplishments.  Their friends agreed too, that she made him the best of mothers, barring the fact (for which weakness she was excusable—­he was such a love!) that she spoiled him, and perhaps permitted him to rule her too absolutely.  Was he grateful?  Oh, well, that would come in time.  Appreciation was not a quality to be expected in children, and what more natural than that the boy should accept as a matter of course the good things which she made plain it was her chief pleasure in life to shower upon him?  She was indeed, as good a mother as it was possible for a mother without a highly developed imagination to be.

A most lovely woman was Frances Allan, justly admired and liked by all who knew her.  She was pretty and gracious and sunny-tempered and sweet-natured; charitable—­both to society and the poor—­and faithful to her religious duties.  Withal, a notable house-keeper, given to hospitality, fond of “company” and gifted in the art of making her friends feel at home under her roof.  If she was not gifted with a lively imagination she did not know it, and so had not missed it.  As Mr. Allan’s wife she had not needed it.  And so she lavished upon Edgar Goodfellow everything that heart could wish.  She delighted to provide him with pets and toys and good things to eat, and to fill his little pockets with money for him to spend upon himself or upon treating his friends.  Fortunately, the other Edgar—­Edgar the Dreamer—­was not dependent upon her for his pleasures, for the beauties of sky and river and garden and wood which nourished his soul were within his own reach.

If Mrs. Allan had known Edgar the Dreamer, she would have been puzzled and alarmed.  If Mr. Allan had known him he would have been angry.  A man of action was John Allan.  A canny Scotchman he, who owed his success as a tobacco merchant to energy and strict attention to business.  If there were dreams in the bowl of the pipe, there was no room for them in the counting-house of a thrifty dealer in the weed.  Meditation had no part in his life—­was left out of his composition.  He believed in doing.  Day-dreaming was in his opinion but another name for idling, and idling was sin.

The son of their adoption vaguely realized the lack of kinship—­the impossibility of contact between his nature and theirs, and as time went on drew more and more within himself.  The life of Edgar the Dreamer became more and more secret.  So often however, did the warning against his idle habit fall upon his ears that the plastic conscience of childhood made note of it—­confusing the will of a blind human guardian with that of God.  The Eden of his dreams, guarded by the flaming sword of his foster-father’s wrath, began to assume the aspect (because by parental command denied him) of an evil place—­though none the less sweet to his soul—­and it was with a consciousness of guilt that he would steal in and wander there.