Then again, he wanted to see whether it was the boy's literary taste, never much in evidence, or his romantic conception of the much-talked-of poet, which had prompted his intense interest in the man.
"Read these poems, Harry, and tell me who wrote them," said St.George, dusting the book with a thrash of his handkerchief and tossing it to the young fellow.
The boy caught it, skimmed through the thin volume, lingered over one or two pages, absorbing each line, and replied in a decided and delighted voice: "The same man who wrote 'The Raven,' of course--there can't be any doubt of it.

I can hear Mr.Horn's voice in every line.

Why didn't you let me have it before ?" "Are you sure ?" asked St.George, watching him closely.
"Am I sure ?--of course I am! Listen to this: "'We grew in age--and--love--together, Roaming the forest and the wild--' "That's Kate and me, Uncle George," and he smiled sadly.

"And then this line: "'I saw no heaven but in her eyes.' "And then these lines in 'The Raven'-- wait--I will read them." He had the sheet of paper in his pocket which Richard Horn had read from at the club, and knew the poem now by heart: "'Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if, within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels call Lenore'-- "That's me again.

I wish I could read it like Mr.Horn.What a voice--so deep--so musical--like a great organ, or, rather, like one of the big strings on his violin." "And what a mind, too, Harry," rejoined St.George.