Bessie Valentine made them come in and have a chunk of cake, and it was a chunk indeed. Those who liked had a glass of buttermilk.
Cousin Jennie had gone up to the corner to look for them. Hanny espied her, and ran forward.
"Oh," she cried, "I've seen the house where Mr. Poe lives. And we went in the graveyard. Who was the other lady sitting on the porch?"
"That was Mrs. Clemm. I go up there to borrow books; and I like Mr. Poe, only—well, he is rather unfortunate."
"Was she so beautiful?" asked the child, irrelevantly.
"Mrs. Poe? Yes; I think she must have been. She looked like a small white wraith—do you know what a wraith is?" smilingly.
"A kind of ghost. And were they very poor?"
"It's a sad story. I think they were proud as well, for any one would have come in and done any needed thing. They had friends in the city who used to visit them. Mrs. Clemm was Mrs. Poe's mother and the poet's aunt; and it is said Annabel Lee means his wife. It's a wild, musical thing. Every story or poem of his has a curious ghostly sound."
"But—the high-born kinsman—"
The little girl's eyes were vague and puzzled.