“But I've never seen the inside or outside of a distillery in my life,” answered Harry with a laugh, a reply which did not in the least quench the major's enthusiasms, who went on dilating, wine-glass in hand, on the vulgarity of drinking STANDING UP--the habitual custom of whiskey tipplers--in contrast with the refinement of sipping wines SITTING DOWN--one being a vice and the other a virtue. Richard, too, had been noticing Harry. He had overheard, as the dinner progressed, a remark the boy had made to the guest next him, regarding the peculiar rhythm of Poe's verse--Harry repeating the closing lines of the poem with such keen appreciation of their meaning that Richard at once joined in the talk, commending him for his insight and discrimination. He had always supposed that Rutter's son, like all the younger bloods of his time, had abandoned his books when he left college and had affected horses and dogs instead. The discovery ended in his scrutinizing Harry's face the closer, reading between the lines--his father here, his mother there--until a quick knitting of the brows, and a flash from out the deep-brown eyes, upset all his preconceived opinions; he had expected grit and courage in the boy--there couldn't help being that when one thought of his father--but where did the lad get his imagination? Richard wondered--that which millions could not purchase. “A most engaging young man in spite of his madcap life,” he said to himself--“I don't wonder St. George loves him.” When the bell in the old church struck the hour of ten, Harry again turned to Richard and said with a sigh of disappointment: “I'm afraid it's too late to expect him--don't you think so?” “Yes, I fear so,” rejoined Richard, who all through the dinner had never ceased to bend his ear to every sound, hoping for the rumble of wheels or the quick step of a man in the hall. “Something extraordinary must have happened to him, or he may have been called suddenly to Richmond and taken the steamboat.” Then leaning toward his host he called across the table: “Might I make a suggestion, St. George?” St. George paused in his talk with Mr. Kennedy and Latrobe and raised his head: “Well, Richard?” “I was just saying to young Rutter here, that perhaps Mr. Poe has been called suddenly to Richmond and has sent you a note which has not reached you.” “Or he might be ill,” suggested Harry in his anxiety to leave no loophole through which the poet could escape. “Or he might be ill,” repeated Richard--“quite true. Now would you mind if I sent Malachi to Guy's to find out?” “No, Richard--but I'll send Todd. We can get along, I expect, with Malachi until he gets back. Todd!” “Yes, sah.” “You go to Guy's and ask Mr. Lampson if Mr. Poe is still in the hotel. If he is not there ask for any letter addressed to me and then come back. If he is in, go up to his room and present my compliments, and say we are waiting dinner for him.”