In a cosy little parlor, at the top of a London stair, a dozen persons were chatting together. The sounds of wind and rain upon the casement only served to increase the warmth and brightness of the snug apartment. Everybody seemed in the highest spirits, and finally one of the guests, a man whom the others called "Southey," turned gayly to the hostess and inquired with the ease of old friendship,-- "My good lady, when are we to have our supper? Please remember that Wordsworth and I have journeyed all the way from Keswick solely for the delight of supping with you. Do you realize that eleven o'clock has come and gone?" Mary Lamb laughed merrily, but shook her head with decision. "Fifteen minutes more you must wait, so curb your hunger as best you can. The guest of honor has not yet arrived, and when he comes, you will all agree, I am sure, that it would be worth while to delay supper until to-morrow, if only we might have him with us." "A mystery! A mystery!" cried the visitors, and thereupon they began to ply Miss Mary's brother with questions as to who the expected personage might be. To all these, the young host gave jovial but vague replies, exchanging with his sister frequent nods and smiles over their heads. Presently there sounded a quick step on the stair, and Charles Lamb threw open the door, shouting joyfully,-- "Welcome, Samuel, my blessed old friend! Welcome, a thousand times!" At his words, the guests sprang up with a single impulse, crying in astonishment,-- "Coleridge!" Then for an instant they turned their eyes away from the two who stood clasping one another's hands in wordless, heartfelt greeting. The silence endured but a moment; then the new-comer was quickly surrounded, and the room rang with the hearty good-will of his reception. Charles hastened to relieve him of his travelling cloak and hat, Mary summoned the party to the table, temptingly laid, and the guests sat down to the enjoyment of the viands and the company of their unexpected friend. Samuel Coleridge had just returned after a two years' absence from England, and the tales he related of his visit, the accounts he gave of his adventures abroad, captivated the company. Every word that fell from his lips was received with keen attention, and whether his mood was grave or gay, serious or sprightly, his hearers sat enthralled. "To be sure, Coleridge is a wonderful poet," whispered Southey to the lady next him, "but in my judgment he talks even better than he writes." "He holds us with his expressive eyes," mused Mary. "I can see," decided Charles, "that his power lies in his magnetic voice, the voice that charmed us all in the old school-days." Whatever was the source of his singular influence, hours passed as the visitors sat under the spell of Samuel's presence, and morning was stealing across the threshold when they rose from the table and took their departure.