A few years subsequent to the events recorded in the last chapter, in the city of R——, where our country friends had gone to live, on a sultry summer evening, near sunset, Morlene went forth into the front yard of her home for the purpose of watering her flowers. She had on an evening gown, while her head was hidden in a bonnet. With her back to the street, she stood leveling the water from the hose at the various flower groups. While she was thus engaged, a man above the average in height, possessing a form that conveyed the impression of nobility and strength, was in the act of passing by. When he came directly behind Morlene, having a keen relish for nature's supreme efforts at the artistic, he was so struck with the outlines of her form that he involuntarily stopped.

"Now that is what I call beauty," he exclaimed, without knowing that he spoke.

Morlene vaguely felt that some one had stopped, the fact of the cessation of the footsteps dawning upon her consciousness. She turned full around and her eyes fell on the handsome face of the man gazing at her. His skin was smooth, his features regular, his eye intelligent and his head so formed as to indicate great brain power. As to color he was black, but even those prejudiced to color forgot that prejudice when they gazed upon this ebony-like Apollo. Wherever he appeared he was sure to attract attention as a rare specimen of physical manhood. His was evidently an open, frank nature, and his soul was in his face.

As Morlene looked upon him, she felt her strength give way. The hose fell from her hands. Her very soul sent up a wail: "Alas, O God, there he is! Why did you let him come?" She turned and fled to her house.

Dorlan Warthell, for such was the name of the man, was much discomfited that he had so terrified the lady, and resolved at some convenient time to apologize for the shock that his behavior had caused. He entered the yard, stopped the waste of water from the hose and proceeded on his journey, carrying in his mind the image of the most beautiful woman on whom he had ever laid eyes.

Morlene on entering her room, locked the door, burst into tears, buried her face in her hands, sobbed violently. Judge her not too harshly, dear reader. Allow her this brief moment of weeping over the re-opened grave of her long buried ideal; for, one glance at Dorlan Warthell, say what you will against love at sight, had somehow sufficed to tell her penetrating spirit that he was the one man, who, had she been free, could have exacted that full strength of love, which, struggle as painfully as she might, would not yield allegiance to Harry whom she had married under a species of duress. Morlene dropped her hands from her face, forced a smile to appear, stamped a pretty foot upon the floor and said between gritted teeth: "Avaunt, ye idle dreams of youth; I am a woman now, a man's lawfully wedded wife! Come not here to haunt me with visions of what might have been!"

When Harry came home from his work that evening Morlene met him with a greeting of more than usual warmth, as much as to say, "Poor Harry, your place in my heart is the safer, now that my dreams of other days have been met in concrete form and gloriously vanquished." She now consoled herself with the thought that she would one day love Harry as she had always desired to love a husband. Happy in this thought, she retired to rest, and, much to her chagrin and annoyance, dreamed of the handsome stranger whom she had seen.