It so chanced that upon that very day the editor of _Graham's Magazine_ found himself sufficiently recovered from his illness to go out for the first time. As he fared forth, gaunt and tremulous, the midsummer beauty of out-of-doors effected him curiously. It seemed strange to him that the rose on the porch should be so gay, that the sunshine should lie so golden upon the houses and in the streets of Spring Garden--that birds should be singing and the whole world going happily on when his heart held such black despair. As he went on, however, the fresh sweet air gave him a sense of physical well-being that buoyed his spirits in spite of the bitterness of his thoughts. He was going to work again, and he was glad of it--but he made no resolutions for the future. In the past when he had fallen and had braced himself up again, he had sworn to himself that he would be strong thereafter--that he would never, never yield to the temptation to touch wine again. But he had not been strong. And now he looked the deplorable truth straight in the face. He hoped with all his soul that he would not fall again. He would give everything he possessed to ensure himself from yielding to the temptation to taste the wild exhilaration--the freedom--the forgetfulness--to say to the cup "Nevermore"--to ensure himself from having to pay the price of his yielding in the agony of remorse that was a descent into hell. But he would deceive himself with no lying pledges. He hoped--he longed to be strong; but he could not swear that he would be--he did not know whether he would be or not. The temptation was not upon him now--he loathed the very thought of it now; but the temptation would most certainly return sooner or later. He hoped from the bottom of his soul that he would resist it, but he feared--nay, in his secret heart he believed--that he would yield. And because he believed it he loathed himself. As he drew near the office he thought of Mr. Graham,--how kind he was--how trustful. He wondered if Mr. Graham knew the cause of his illnesses and if not how long it would before he would know it; and if the attacks were repeated how long he would be able to hold the place that had shown him the end of the rainbow? How bitter it would be to some day find, added to all the other disastrous results of his weakness of will--to find another in the editorial chair of _Graham's_. Just at this point in his soliliquy he reached his destination. He mounted the steps leading to the office of _Graham's Magazine_ and opened the door--quietly. For a moment the two men in the office--each deep in his own work--were unaware of his presence, and he stood staring upon their backs as they sat at their desks. Mr. Graham was in his accustomed seat and in his--The Dreamer's--the giant frame of the man whose big brain he admired--though he was "no poet,"--the frame of Rufus Griswold!