"Oh, Hanny means that Mr. Poe. Why, yes; it's the old Cromwell house. It isn't much to see. There, that little cottage." No, it was not much to see,--a very bird's nest house with a great tree shading it, and a little porch at the side. A rather thin elderly woman sat sewing in a rocking-chair. She did not even look up at the children. They were full of fun and nonsense, and presently were joined by two neighbouring girls. They went up by the old church, and then they wandered to the graveyard. It was a rather neglected place, as country graveyards were wont to be at that time. Some red clovers were in bloom, and a few belated buttercups. The trees were rather straggling, a few magnificent in their age. There were long-armed rose-trees that had done their best in the earlier season, a few wild roses, pale from growing in the shade, and the long slender blades of grass fell about in very weakness. There were some curious inscriptions; there were places where relatives of several of the children were buried. "Oh, Hanny, come here," said Cousin Ann. "That Mr. Poe's wife is buried here. It's the Valentine plot. They're going to take her away sometime. They're all very poor, you know. She died in the winter. People said she was beautiful; but,"--Ann lowered her voice,--"they were awful poor, and it is said she didn't have comfortable things. I should hate to be so poor; shouldn't you?" Hanny shuddered. She was glad to get out in the sunshine again with her few wild flowers in her hand. Bessie Valentine made them come in and have a chunk of cake, and it was a chunk indeed. Those who liked had a glass of buttermilk. Cousin Jennie had gone up to the corner to look for them. Hanny espied her, and ran forward. "Oh," she cried, "I've seen the house where Mr. Poe lives. And we went in the graveyard. Who was the other lady sitting on the porch?" "That was Mrs. Clemm. I go up there to borrow books; and I like Mr. Poe, only--well, he is rather unfortunate." "Was she so beautiful?" asked the child, irrelevantly. "Mrs. Poe? Yes; I think she must have been. She looked like a small white wraith--do you know what a wraith is?" smilingly. "A kind of ghost. And were they very poor?" "It's a sad story. I think they were proud as well, for any one would have come in and done any needed thing. They had friends in the city who used to visit them. Mrs. Clemm was Mrs. Poe's mother and the poet's aunt; and it is said Annabel Lee means his wife. It's a wild, musical thing. Every story or poem of his has a curious ghostly sound." "But--the high-born kinsman--" The little girl's eyes were vague and puzzled. "You can't understand it. Poets say queer things. I'm not fond of poetry, only here and there. And the stories make you shiver. You wouldn't like them. He has all sorts of books, and he is very generous with them. We've planned that you are to come up and stay a week with us. Some of the folks are going away, and there will be plenty of room."