What he enjoyed most of all was the time spent at his desk, in the shelter of the new-found haven of rest, with the happy “Muddie” and “Sissy” nearby.

This little family circle was unique.  There was an unmistakably oak-like element in the nature of the widow which was apparent to some degree even in her outward appearance, in the stateliness and dignity of her figure and carriage—­an element of sturdiness and self-reliance which made it her pleasure to be clung to, looked up to, leaned upon.  The character of her new-found son was, on the contrary, vine-like.  He was constantly reaching out tendrils of craving for love, for appreciation, for understanding.  More—­for advice, for guidance.  Such tendrils seeking a foot-hold, make a strong appeal to every womanly woman.  She sees in them a call to her nobility of soul, to the mother that is a part of her spiritual nature—­a call that gives her pleasant good-angel sensations, that soften her heart and flatter her self-esteem.  To the Widow Clemm, with her self-reliance and her highly developed maternal instinct, the appeal was irresistible and between her and The Dreamer the ivy and oak relation was promptly established, while in the little Virginia he found a heartsease blossom to be loved and sheltered by both—­the loveliest of heartsease blossoms whose beauty, whose purity and innocence and the stored sweets of whose nature were all for him.

The three lived, indeed, for each other only, in a dream-valley apart from and invisible to, the rest of the world, for their dreams of which it was constructed made it theirs and theirs alone.  Their dreams piled beautiful mountains around the valley through which peace flowed as a gentle river, while love and contentment and innocent pleasures were as flowers besprinkling the grass and speaking to their hearts of the love and the glory of God, and the fancies with which they beguiled the time were as tall, fantastic trees, moved by soft zephyrs.  And because of the bright flowers ever springing in the green turf that carpeted the valley, they named it the Valley of the Many-Colored Grass.  And to the three the dream-valley, with its peace and its beauty and its sweet seclusion, was the real world, while all the wilderness outside of it, where other men dwelt was the unreal.

* * * * *

One happy effect of these peaceful days upon The Dreamer was that there was in them no temptation to excess—­no restless craving for excitement.  The Bohemian—­the Edgar Goodfellow—­side of him found, it is true, an outlet, but a harmless one.  He found it in the genial atmosphere of the Widow Meagher’s modest eating-house where he and his new crony, Wilmer, passed many a jolly hour.  The widow, an elderly, portly dame, with a kind Irish heart and keen Irish wit, had the power of diffusing a wonderful cheerfulness around her.  Her shop was clean, if plain, her oysters were savory, if cheap.  Like all women, she petted Edgar Poe, and hearing from Wilmer that he was a poet, she at once gave him the name by which the West Point boys had called him, and to all of the frequenters of her shop he was known as “the Bard.”