Edgar Poe had been loved of women, he had been adored by small boys, he had received many material benefits from his foster father, he had been kindly treated by his teachers, but he was now for the first time taken by the hand spiritually as well as physically, by a man, a man of mental and moral force and of position in the world; a man, moreover, who with rare divination appreciated, out of his own strength, the weaknesses and the needs as well as the gifts and graces of his new acquaintance, and who took his dreams and ambitions seriously.  The sane, wholesome companionship which The Dreamer found in him and at his hospitable fireside acted like a tonic upon his spirits and improvement in his health both of mind and body were rapid.

Though warning him against being over much elated at his success, and an expectation of growing suddenly either rich or famous, Mr. Kennedy was as good as his word in regard to helping him find a market for his work.  A proud moment it was when the young author received a note from his patron inviting him to dine with Mr. Wilmer, the editor of The Saturday Visitor which had given him the prize, and some other gentlemen of the profession of journalism.  But his pleasure was followed by quick mortification. What should he wear? Still holding the open note in his hand, he looked down ruefully at his clothes—­his only ones.  For all their brushing and darning they were unmistakably shabby—­utterly unfit to grace a dinner-party.  Nearly all of the hundred dollars which had seemed such a fortune had already been spent to pay bills incurred during his illness and to buy provisions for the bare little home which had sheltered him in his need and which had become so dear to his heart.  No, he could not go to the dinner, but what excuse could he make that would seem to Mr. Kennedy sufficient to warrant him in not only declining his hospitality but putting from him the chance of meeting the editor of the Visitor under such auspices?

At length he decided that in this case absolute frankness was his only course.

“My dear Mr. Kennedy,” he wrote,

“Your invitation to dinner has wounded me to the quick.  I cannot come for reasons of the most humiliating nature—­my personal appearance.  You may imagine my mortification in making this disclosure to you, but it is necessary.”

As he was about, in bitterness of soul, to add his signature a sudden thought caused him to pause, pen poised in air.  A thought?—­A temptation would perhaps be a better word.  It bade him consider carefully before throwing away his chance.  Who knew, who could tell, it questioned, how much might depend upon this meeting?  His fortune might be made by it!  Almost certainly it would lead to the sale of some more of his stories to the Visitor.  Mr. Kennedy believed that it would have this result—­for this purpose he had arranged it.  After taking so much pains for his benefit he would undoubtedly be disappointed—­seriously disappointed—­if his plan should fail.  Mr. Kennedy had been so kind, so generous—­doubtless he would gladly advance him a sum sufficient to make himself presentable for the dinner—­to be paid by the first check received as a result of the meeting.  A very modest sum would do.  He might manage it, he thought, with twenty dollars.