had been perused with singular avidity.  Dr. Hartwell, without restricting her reading, suggested the propriety of incorporating more of the poetic element in her course.  The hint was timely, and induced an acquaintance with the great bards of England and Germany, although her taste led her to select works of another character.  Her secluded life favored habits of study, and, at an age when girls are generally just beginning to traverse the fields of literature, she had progressed so far as to explore some of the footpaths which entice contemplative minds from the beaten track.  With earlier cultivation and superiority of years, Eugene had essayed to direct her reading; but now, in point of advancement, she felt that she was in the van.  Dr. Hartwell had told her, whenever she was puzzled, to come to him for explanation, and his clear analysis taught her how immeasurably superior he was, even to those instructors whose profession it was to elucidate mysteries.  Accustomed to seek companionship in books, she did not, upon the present occasion, long reflect on her guardian’s sudden departure, but took from the shelves a volume of Poe which contained her mark.  The parting rays of the winter sun grew fainter; the dull, somber light of vanishing day made the room dim, and it was only by means of the red glare from the glowing grate that she deciphered the print.  Finally the lamp was brought in, and shed a mellow radiance over the dusky apartment.  The volume was finished and dropped upon her lap.  The spell of this incomparable sorcerer was upon her imagination; the sluggish, lurid tarn of Usher; the pale, gigantic water lilies, nodding their ghastly, everlasting heads over the dreary Zaire; the shrouding shadow of Helusion; the ashen skies, and sere, crisped leaves in the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir, hard by the dim lake of Auber—­all lay with grim distinctness before her; and from the red bars of the grate the wild, lustrous, appalling eyes of Ligeia looked out at her, while the unearthly tones of Morella whispered from every corner of the room.  She rose and replaced the book on the shelf, striving to shake off the dismal hold which all this phantasmagoria had taken on her fancy.  Her eyes chanced to fall upon a bust of Athene which surmounted her guardian’s desk, and immediately the mournful refrain of the Raven, solemn and dirge-like, floated through the air, enhancing the spectral element which enveloped her.  She retreated to the parlor, and, running her fingers over the keys of the piano, endeavored by playing some of her favorite airs to divest her mind of the dreary, unearthly images which haunted it.  The attempt was futile, and there in the dark, cold parlor she leaned her head against the piano, and gave herself up to the guidance of one who, like the “Ancient Mariner,” holds his listener fascinated and breathless.  Once her guardian had warned her not to study Poe too closely, but the book was often in his own hand, and, yielding to the matchless