look out at the trees and the sky now roseate with the hues of evening.  In a set of shelves that nearly reached the ceiling stood row on row of friendly looking books.  Upon a high mahogany chest of drawers, with its polished brass trimmings and little swinging looking-glass, stood a white and gold porcelain vase filled with asters—­purple, white and pink—­while before it, in a deep arm-chair, a little girl of ten or eleven years, with a face like a Luca della Robbia chorister, or like one of the children of sunny Italy that served for old Luca’s model, was curled up, stroking a large white cat which lay purring in her lap.

Upon the child the wondering eyes of the sick man lingered longest and to her they returned when their survey of the rest of the room was done.  Suddenly, impelled by the steadiness of his gaze, she lifted her own dark, soft eyes and let them rest for a moment upon his.  She started—­then was up and across the floor in a flash, carrying the cat upon her shoulder.

“Muddie, Muddie,” she cried from the door, “The new Buddie is awake!”

Then, still carrying her pet, she walked, to his bedside and gazed earnestly and unabashed into the “new Buddie’s” face.  Her eyes had the velvety softness of pansy petals and as they looked into the eyes of the sick man recalled to his clearing mind the expression of mixed love and questioning in the eyes of his spaniel, “Comrade,” the faithful friend of his boyhood.

At length he spoke.

“Who is ’Muddie’?”

“She’s my mother, and you are my new brother that has come to live with us always.”

A radiant smile illumined the pale and haggard face.  “Thank Heaven for that!” he said.  “And who brought me up out of the grave?”

The child was spared the necessity of puzzling over this startling question. Surely it was no other than she, he thought—­she who at this moment appeared at the open door—­the tall figure of a woman or angel who in the next moment was kneeling beside him with a heaven of protecting love in her face. She it was, no other! Through all of his dreams he had been dimly conscious of her—­saving him from death and despair.  Now for the first time, in the light of life, and in his new consciousness he saw her plainly.

* * * * *

Edgar Poe’s convalescence was slow but it was steady, and even in his weakness he felt a peace and happiness such as he had rarely tasted.  This frugal but restful home in which he found himself, with the ministrations of “Muddie” and “Sissy,” as he playfully called his aunt and the little cousin who had adopted him as her “Buddie,” were to him, after his struggle with hunger, fever and death, like a safe harbor to a storm-tossed sailor.