"Mr. and Mrs. Dalton live there," replied Mrs. Morgan, looking intently at Dorlan, seeking to fathom the secret purpose which she felt inspired his question; for she knew that Dorlan paid but little attention to the matter of houses and neighbors. "Have Mr. and Mrs. Dalton any children--a daughter?" asked Dorlan, giving strict attention to the food on his plate. "No; they are childless," said Mrs. Morgan, her interest growing. "I saw a young woman up there as I passed this evening; I suppose she is visiting them." "I see the point--a young woman," said Mrs. Morgan inwardly. Aloud she said, "Perhaps so. If you could describe her I might be able to tell who she is." Dorlan looked up quickly as much as to say, "Who in the world can describe that beautiful woman." He kept that reflection to himself. He began to describe the lady, when Mrs. Morgan interrupted him to say. "Oh, that was Mrs. Dalton--Mrs. Harry Dalton--undoubtedly the most beautiful Negro girl in the country." Dorlan finished his meal in silence. He inwardly belabored himself for having allowed his mind to be so taken up with the image of a married woman. Repairing to his room, he was soon deeply engrossed in a book, as thoroughly oblivious of Morlene, he thought, as if he had never seen or heard of such a person. On the following day at ten o'clock Morlene called at the residence of Mrs. Morgan, it being her usual time for giving music lessons to that lady's young daughter. 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 the child should come. Dorlan was in a room directly over the one in which Morlene was to play. Neither of them knew of the presence of the other in the house. Morlene first began to play a light air upon the piano. But as she struck the keys and brought forth harmonies, other and deeper emotions in her bosom craved for expression. Soon she was making the piano tell her heart's full story, to be borne away, as she thought, upon the 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 harmonies deepened. He closed the book that he was reading, folded his arms and gazed out of his window into the distance. He was simply enraptured and had a keen desire to know who it was that could make lifeless matter pay such eloquent tribute to the longings of the human soul. At length Morlene began to play and sing: "John Brown's body lies moulding in the clay; John Brown's body lies moulding in the clay; John Brown's body lies moulding in the clay, As we go marching on. Glory! Glory! Hallelujah! Glory! Glory! Hallelujah! Glory! Glory! Hallelujah! As we go marching on!"