He hunted up two or three magazines. Hanny sat down on the door-sill; it was so softly, so enchantingly bright out-of-doors, and the room a little gloomy. She wanted to have a glimpse of sunshine, for Mrs. Osgood looked as if she belonged to the brighter world. They were dainty and bright. One was set to music afterward; and the little girl learned to sing it very prettily:-- "I've something sweet to tell you, And the secret you must keep, For remember, if it isn't night, I'm talking in my sleep." Then they talked about poetry. I dare say he was amused at a little girl whose ideal poem was "Genevieve," by Coleridge, and who knew "Christobel," "The Ancient Mariner," and "The Lady of the Lake" half by heart. When, in her young womanhood, she read some of his sharp, scathing criticisms, she wondered at his sweetness that afternoon. With a little more courage, she would have asked him what was really meant by "the high-born kinsman;" but she did not know as it was quite proper to talk to him about his own verses. The wood-robins were singing in the tall trees, and the sun made dancing shadows on the stoop that was always clean as a floor. Mrs. Clemm brought her splint rocker out, and begged her to try it, and asked after the cousins, sending thanks for the cake that she had found in her basket, and the pot-cheese that had proved such a treat to her visitors. She thanked Mrs. Clemm prettily for the chair, but said she must go home. The poet nodded. He had taken up his pen then, and she wondered what the spell was like that inspired a poem. The next forenoon, they saw Mr. Poe going down to the station. Cousin Jennie shook her head; and the stout old Major said, "It was a pity Mrs. Clemm couldn't keep him at home steadily." She was never to see him again; but when she heard of his tragic death, her heart ached for the poor desolate mother. CHAPTER XI THE KING OF TERRORS They all admitted that Hanny had improved a good deal. She seemed to have grown every way. Her mother was sure she must let her skirts down; and her last winter's frocks were too tight about the shoulders, and too short in the sleeves. She had absolutely gained five pounds, and her little face had rounded out. But still she was smaller than most girls of her age. She had so much to talk about that her mother said she was a regular little gossip. Her father liked to hear about grandmother and the kindly, large-hearted Major. She had found out that when grandmother was a young girl her name was Hannah Underhill, now it was Horton. So many elderly people had been visiting at Fordham, and her father knew most of them. But Ben and Doctor Joe were interested in the poet Poe; Joe knew more about him than he confessed to his little sister.