“But you, Lewis?” the sister suddenly questioned, with an astonished stare at the rolled-up quilt under her brother’s arm.
“Oh, I—. Look here, Addy—” he broke off and began to grope in his pocket—“I haven’t much about me ... the old gentleman keeps me as close as ever ... but here’s a dollar, if you think that poor Mrs. Poe could use it ... I’d be too happy ... consider it a privilege....”
“Oh, Lewis, Lewis, how noble, how generous of you! Of course I can buy a few extra things with it ... they never see meat unless I can bring them a bit, you know ... and I fear she’s dying of a decline ... and she and her mother are so fiery-proud....” She wept with gratitude, and Lewis drew a breath of relief. He had diverted her attention from the bed-quilt.
“Ah, there’s the breeze,” he murmured, sniffing the suddenly chilled air.
“Yes; I must be off; I must be back before the sun is up,” said Mary Adeline anxiously, “and it would never do if mother knew—”
“She doesn’t know of your visits to Mrs. Poe?”
A look of childish guile sharpened Mary Adeline’s undeveloped face. “She does, of course; but yet she doesn’t ... we’ve arranged it so. You see, Mr. Poe’s an Atheist; and so father—”
“I see,” Lewis nodded. “Well, we part here; I’m off for a swim,” he said glibly. But abruptly he turned back and caught his sister’s arm. “Sister, tell Mrs. Poe, please, that I heard her husband give a reading from his poems in New York two nights ago—”
(“Oh, Lewis—you? But father says he’s a blasphemer!”)
“—And that he’s a great poet—a Great Poet. Tell her that from me, will you, please, Mary Adeline?”