"Who was he, father?" she asked with a hushed voice.
"A young man, an author, a poet. He had been my dearest friend, when
we were boys; and, though I lost sight of him for years,--he led an
erratic life,--we were friends when he died. Poor, poor fellow! Well,
he is at peace."
The stern voice had saddened, and was almost tremulous. The spectral
form was still.
"How did he die, father?"
"A long story, darling," he replied, gravely, "and a sad one. He was
very poor and proud. He was a genius,--that is, a person without an
atom of practical talent. His parents died, the last, his mother, when
he was near manhood. I was in college then. Thrown upon the world, he
picked up a scanty subsistence with his pen, for a time. I could have
got him a place in the counting-house, but he would not take it; in
fact, he wasn't fit for it. You can't harness Pegasus to the cart, you
know. Besides, he despised mercantile life, without reason, of course;
but he was always notional. His love of literature was one of the rocks
he foundered on.
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