h Morlene. His head was inclined forward slightly, an unwonted sparkle was in his eye, and half a smile played u

wn itself across the pathway of my mind so that it will not move on? Has nothing met me more than that lovely form, the head of a queen, angel face, e

at the supper table, spoke as follows to Mrs. Morgan, his landlady: "I notice that

ld, Mr. Yearby and Mr. Dalton. These gentlemen have

d white, with that wonderful assortment of

seeking to fathom the secret purpose which she felt inspired his question; for sh

-a daughter?" asked Dorlan, giving str

ss," said Mrs. Morgan

as I passed this evening; I

young woman," said

f you could describe her I mig

scribe that beautiful woman." He kept that reflection to himself. He

ry Dalton-undoubtedly the most bea

taken up with the image of a married woman. Repairing to his room, he was soon deeply engrossed in a b

ter. The girl had gone away on an errand for her mother and had not yet returned. Morlene entered the music room and decided to amuse herself by playing until

wings of the passing breeze. The sounds floated up to Dorlan's open window and into his room. At first he slightly knitted his brow, fearing that he was to be bored by some mechanical performer; but the frown relaxed and gave place to a look of supreme contentment as the harm

lene began to

ody lies mouldi

ody lies mould

ody lies mould

o march

lory! Ha

lory! Ha

lory! Ha

o march

each word tremblingly in that part of the song setting forth the sad fate of John Brown. But as she reached the words, "Hallelujah," the notes swelled into a grand paen of trium

ing half aloud: "Spare me! Oh, spare me! I cannot, I cannot hear those s

eley, who, daily in the columns of his great newspaper, refused sleep to the American conscience until slavery was extirpated; Henry Ward Beecher, whose eloquence across the seas quieted

ons, some angel voice has come to serenade his soul and conjure up the hallowed past. Ah! 'tis painful w