Bright and early Monday morning he made ready (with “Muddie’s” aid) for a round of visits to the members of the committee, to thank them for their kind words.  His clothes, hat, boots and gloves were all somewhat worse for wear and his old coat hung loosely upon his shoulders—­wasted as they still were by the effects of his long illness; but he whistled while he brushed and “Muddie” darned and carefully inked the worn seams, and finally it was with a feeling that he was quite presentable that he kissed his hands to his two good angels and ran gaily down the steps.  Hope gave him a debonair mien that belied his shabby-genteel apparel.

A quarter of an hour later Mr. John Kennedy, prominent lawyer and the author of that pleasant book “Swallow Barn,” then newly published and the talk of the town, answered a knock upon his office door with a quick, “Come in!”

At the same time he raised his eyes and confronted those of the young author whom he had been instrumental in raising from the “verge of despair.”

The face of the older man was one of combined strength and amiability.  Evidences of talent were there, but combined with common sense.  There was benevolence in the expansive brow and kindliness and humor as well as character, about the lines of the nose and the wide, full-lipped mouth, and the eyes diffused a light which was not only bright but genial, and which robbed them of keenness as they rested upon the pathetic and at the same time distinguished figure before him.  What the kindly eyes took in a glance was that the pale and haggard young stranger with the big brow and eyes and the clear-cut features, the military carriage and the shabby, but neat, frock coat buttoned to the throat where it met the fashionable black stock, and with the modest and exquisite manners, was a gentleman and a scholar—­but poor, probably even hungry.  They kindled with added interest when the visitor introduced himself as Edgar Poe—­the author of “Tales of the Folio Club.”

The strong, pleasant face and the cordial hand that grasped his own, then placed a chair for him, invited the young author’s confidence—­a confidence that always responded promptly to kindness—­and he had soon poured into the attentive ear of John Kennedy not only profuse thanks for the encouraging words in the Visitor but his whole history.  Deeply touched by the young man’s refined and intellectual beauty—­partially obscured as it was by the unmistakable marks of illness and want—­by his frank, confiding manners, by the evidences in thought and expression of gifts of a high order, and by the moving story he told, Mr. Kennedy’s heart went out to him and he sent him on his way to pay his respects to the other members of the committee, rejoicing in offers of friendship and hospitality and promises of aid in securing publishers for his writings.