The strong, pleasant face and the cordial hand that grasped his own, then placed a chair for him, invited the young author's confidence--a confidence that always responded promptly to kindness--and he had soon poured into the attentive ear of John Kennedy not only profuse thanks for the encouraging words in the _Visitor_ but his whole history. Deeply touched by the young man's refined and intellectual beauty--partially obscured as it was by the unmistakable marks of illness and want--by his frank, confiding manners, by the evidences in thought and expression of gifts of a high order, and by the moving story he told, Mr. Kennedy's heart went out to him and he sent him on his way to pay his respects to the other members of the committee, rejoicing in offers of friendship and hospitality and promises of aid in securing publishers for his writings. 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,