When the frequent and welcome summons to the bountiful board of the Kennedys came the young poet blushed for shame in the pleasure he could not help feeling in anticipation of the chance to satisfy his chastened appetite, and he often found himself fearing that the hunger with which he ate the good things which these kind friends placed upon his plate would betray the necessary frugality of the dear “Muddie’s” house-keeping, which was one of the sacred secrets of the sweet home.  Sometimes his pride would make him go so far as to decline delicious morsels in the hope of correcting such an impression, if it should exist.

He racked his brain to find a means of making his work bring him more money.  Upon Mr. Kennedy’s advice, he sent his “Tales of the Folio Club” to the Philadelphia publishing house of “Carey and Lea.”  After several weeks of anxious waiting he received a letter accepting the collection for publication but frankly admitting that his receiving any profit from the sale of the book was an exceedingly doubtful matter.  They suggested, however, that they be permitted to sell some of the tales to publishers of the then popular “annuals,” reserving the right to reprint them in the book.  To this the author gladly consented and received with a joy that was pathetic the sum of fifteen dollars from “The Souvenir,” which had purchased one of the tales at a dollar a printed page.

He and Wilmer put their heads together in dreams of literary work by which a man could live.  One of these dreams took form in the prospectus of a purely literary journal of the highest class which was to be in its criticisms and editorial opinions “fearless, independent and sternly just.”

But the scheme required capital and never got beyond the glowing prospectus.

In spite of the small sums that came to him as veritable God-sends from the sale of his stories and from odd jobs on the Visitor and other journals, Edgar Poe was poor—­miserably poor.  And just as he had begun to flatter himself that he did not mind, that he would bear it with the nonchalance of the true philosopher he believed he had become, it assumed the shape of horror unspeakable to him.  Not for himself, if there were only himself to think of, he felt assured, he could laugh poverty—­want even—­to scorn; but that his little Virginia should feel the pinch was damnable!

Two years had made marked changes in Virginia.  She was losing the formless plumpness of childhood and growing rapidly into a slight and graceful maiden—­a “rare and radiant maiden,” with the tender light of womanhood beginning to dawn in her velvet eyes and to sweeten the curves of her lips.  A maiden lovelier by far than the child had been but with the same divine purity and innocence that had always been hers—­that were his, for her beauty, her purity and innocence and the stored sweets of her nature were still for him alone and for him alone too, was her sweet companionship—­her comradeship—­of which he never wearied.