Her shop had not only an oyster counter, but a bar and a room for cards and smoking but these had little attraction for Poe at this period of his career—­much to the widow’s dissatisfaction, for she wished “the Bard” to be merry, and did not like to see him neglect what she honestly and unblushingly believed to be the really good things of life.  But though to her pressing invitations, “Bard take a hand,” “Bard take a nip,” he was generally deaf, he was more accomodating when, after getting off an unusually clever bit of pleasantry (putting her customers into an uproar of laughter) she would turn to him with, “Bard put it in poethry.”  And put it “in poethry” he did—­to the increased hilarity of the crowd.

* * * * *

The month of February brought an interruption to the smooth and pleasant course of The Dreamer’s life.  A long time had passed since he had heard anything of his friends down in Virginia, and it was therefore with quick interest that he broke the seal of a letter bearing the Richmond post-mark and addressed to him in the unforgotten hand of his early admirer, Rob Sully.  Dear old Rob, the sight of the familiar hand-writing alone warmed The Dreamer’s heart and brought the soft, melting expression to his eyes!

The object of the letter was to tell him that Mr. Allan was extremely ill—­dying, some thought, though the end might not be immediate.  Rob was taking it upon himself to write because he felt that Eddie ought to know.  Mr. Allan had lately been heard to speak kindly of Eddie, he had been told, and it had occurred to him that Eddie might like to come on and have a word of forgiveness from him before he died.

As “Eddie” read, the pleasure the first sight of the letter had given him turned to sudden, sharp pain.  Mr. Allan and—­death!  He had never thought of associating the two.  Under the influence of the shock his heart became all tenderness and regret.

He hurriedly packed his carpet-bag, kissed Mrs. Clemm and Virginia goodbye, and set out post-haste for Richmond and the homestead on Main and Fifth Streets.

He did not stop to lift the brass knocker this time.  The forlorn details of his last visit, his lack of right to cross that threshold uninvited—­what mattered such considerations now?  They were, indeed, forgotten.  Everything was forgotten—­everything save that the man who had stood in the position of father to him was dying—­dying without a word of pardon to him, the most wayward (he felt at that moment of severe contrition)—­the most wayward of prodigal sons.  Everything was forgotten save that he was having a race with death—­a race for a father’s blessing!