Delilah of Harlem : a story of the New York City of to-day

Front matter

RICHARD HENRY

Eleventh]

Routledge's Railway Libr-

Chapter I. — Mrs. Selina Francis' Reception. An Amber Goddess, - - 7

II.— At the Bank. Love in the Park.

Mr. Thomas Overton's Afternoon Call, - - 22

'' III. — Overton's Account Opened. In the

Pool-room. The Moth and the Candle, - - - - 38

IV. — Golden Hours. At the Race Track. At Claremont. A Vanished Venus, - - 54 " V. — Birds of a Feather. Mephisto and Faust. The Senior Partner's Yacht, 75

Book II. In The Toils

Chapter VI. — Breakers Ahead. Awkward Explanations. The " Universe "

Reporter, - - 98

" VII. — Overton's Return. Warring Partners. Riley's Plan. The Boston Train. Abel Cram's Discovery, 120

4 CONTENTS.

PAGE

Chapter VIII.— Home Again. Viola Pomeroy's Successful Novel. Face to Face. Morton at Bay. A Family Crisis, - - 141

" IX. — A Broken Idol. Jose Olivieras

Shipping Venture. Abel Cram's Dilemma. A Wall Street Bank Robbery, - - - 162

" X.— The Inspector Baffled. The Cruise

of the " Restless." Maxwell's Clew. Morton's Quest, - - 192

Book III. A Blind Trail

Chapter XL — On the Blue Caribbean. Parted by Fate. In the Honduras Mountains. Nearing his Enemy, 214 ' XII.— A Battle Day with the Revolutionists. Face to Face. Morton Wipes out his Score. Treasure Trove. Yellow Jack, - 232

" XIII. — Haggerty Sees a Lovely Vision. Maxwell's Colorado Journey.

In Cairo. John Martin's Bride.

In the Bois. " Two Gentlemen from New York." An Old Love-story. " I Want Those Bonds," ... . 256

' XIV.— On the Trail. Seth Wise's Bluff. First Blood for Riley and Oliviera. Delilah of Harlem to the Rescue, - 279

CONTENTS. 5

PAGE

Chapter XV. — A Morning Surprise. The Veiled Witness. Judge Lawton's Ultimatum. Claire Morton's Fortune. The Witch Undoes her Work. Wedding Bells. At the Legation Ball. " Home Again ! " 302

DELILAH OF HARLEM.

A STORY OF THE NEW YORK CITY OF TO-DAY.

Book I. The Spider's Parlor

CHAPTER I.

MRS. SELINA FRANCIS' RECEPTION. AN AMBER GOD- DESS !

" No, old boy ! The whole thing is a bore ! I am tired of New York ! " cried Ralph Burnham, carefully selecting a cigar from the box of Excepcionales.

In a cosey private room of the Brunswick, two men, old college chums, were seated at a table covered with the debris of a bachelor dinner. It was the genial summer time of 1889. The flickering lights on the avenue lit up gay groups hurrying to cafe and theatre. Burnham, tall, dark, and thirty-four, was the type of your uneasy New Yorker, who chafes daily at the sameness of life in the one spot on earth dear above all others.

Walter Maxwell, critic, author, and globe trotter, (blonde and thirty-two,) leaned back in his chair, curiously eying Burnham. Slowly knocking the ash from his cigarette, he pushed Burnham a petit vcrre.

" Now, look here, Ralph ! you were not cut out to play

O DELILAH OF HARLEM.

the blase. No man at Harvard was fuller of life than you. Rouse yourself, old man ! " ejaculated Maxwell, caressing his blonde mustache. " Go in for something — athletics, get a yacht, drive your horses — you must pull yourself together. Now, what have you to complain of? I, poor devil, must live by my pen and wits. Still, I am happy. ' The world's mine oyster ! ' Yours is opened for you, and served on silver plate. When you became junior partner of Morton, Burnham & Co., your fortune was made. No firm is sounder in Wall Street; old Seth Wise's shekels in the Chemical Bank back you up ; Harry Morton is an executive genius. Your duties seem to me to consist of lunching at the Lawyers' Club and trifling at the onyx counters of the Cafe Savarin. Do you really ever do anything ? "

Burnham listlessly answered : " I go through the daily round. Of course, you know, Walter, Wise and Morton have the capital. I presume, if Harry had not married my cousin Claire, I would be merely a confidential clerk — a second edition of Mr. Abel Cram."

Ralph's voice died away in a sneer.

Maxwell gloomily pulled at his cigarette. Certain memories of a long-ago class day at fair Harvard floated back to his mind. Claire's sweet, girlish face — her wistful dark eyes proudly fixed on Burnham — came back to him. The long purse then had turned the scale — as it always does.

With affected carelessness, Maxwell returned to the charge.

" Old man, you need a deeper interest in life. Why don't you marry ? " he queried.

" Marry ! " almost shouted Burnham, bringing down his fist on the table. " Marriage in New York is only for millionnaires or workingmen. The one class fill the town with fools, the other with paupers. No man in my position can afford to keep a golden cage for a woman of his own set. Better have a millstone around one's neck. Besides," he bitterly growled, "the one woman — oh, hang it, old fellow, let's get out of here," springing to his feet, and seizing hat and stick.

" Hold on, Ralph," sharply said Maxwell, grasping him by the arm. " Don't get hipped. Now, you are too much alone. You mope and moon your time away. Get out more among people. See the passing show. Now, I warrant you don't go into the best houses and meet your old friends. "

" Friends ! " retorted Burnham. " I have no friends, old man, but you ! " and his eyes rested lovingly on the friend of his youth. " I know a lot of fellows in business — ■ never see them outside. As for the women, they are a bright, hard-hearted lot ! Every one of them ticketed off with a price— and in the smart set, every man of us has a label bearing the figure of his bank account !

" Do you think I would be fool enough to keep a wife I would see but three times a week in the season, and only hear of her in the society slush journals, or by her unpaid bills ? Never ! by heaven ! "

Maxwell paced the room in angry discontent. " I tell you, I am tired of the whole business ! I wish to God there was a war, or a racket of some kind ! "

" And you think, Ralph, your fate will not come to you ! " persisted Maxwell.

" I see no outlook, old man, except the daily drudgery of the bank," moodily answered Burnham.

Maxwell donned his overcoat. " I am going to show you some queer phases of New York life, my boy — I am going to drag you away from yourself. Now, I'll meet you in half an hour at the 'Hoffman.' I am going to take you to a soiree. Get your dress on, and I'll show you a modern human menagerie."

" Where ? " stolidly demanded Burnham.

" In Harlem, at Mrs. Selina Francis' reception to-night.

IO DELILAH OF HARLEM.

I am ami de maison. You will meet a lot of cranks and some very bright people. They have not a tenth of your income, but they have a hundred times the joy in life you ever will feel, unless you drop the cynic ! "

" Harlem ! " snorted Burnham. " Who lives in Harlem ? "

" Come with me and see ! " gravely rejoined Maxwell. " These people are as veritably alive as Jay Gould or the kings of the Standard Oil, although they are not worthy to be even tassels on the Inner Fringe."

"What sort are they ? " timorously asked Ralph.

Maxwell laughed merrily. " Oh ! artists, literary people, foreigners, and a general assortment of the human biped — male and female. Besides, old man, I want to have a chat with you in the coupe. I will release you, parole dlwmieur, if you can't stand it."

"Well, I don't mind ! " dubiously answered Burnham, who departed, murmuring, sotto voce, " Harlem ! a reception in Harlem ! " with the air of a modern Columbus.

Maxwell, having passed his mauvais quart cTheure de Rabelais, was first at the rendezvous. Musing as his eye strayed over the tide of politicians, sports, " Westerners," and "men about town," which ebbs and flows at the Hoffman, he vainly tried to call back all the details of Burnham's little romance wherein Claire (now his rich partner's wife) was the " bright particular star."

" It seems to me everything goes wrong," he sagely ruminated. " Now, if Burnham had Morton's money, Claire Morton might have been his happy wife and not the childless ornament of a lonely Fifth Avenue home ! It's a case of ' Hoodman Blind ' ! "

" Ah, here we are ! " he cried, as Ralph s tall form edged through the crowd.

In the coupe, many an old scene was reviewed. Maxwell's roving tastes had driven him over the world, from Corea to Egypt, from South America to Siberia, in search

DELILAH OF HARLEM. II

of fresh pabulum for that great reading monster — the American public. Burnham would not open his heart further than to show his daily chafing under the " demnition grind."

" Tell me of yourself," sententiously demanded Burnham, as he settled himself on the cushions.

" I'm a will-o'-the-wisp," gayly replied Maxwell. " Here, there, and everywhere, with a light pocket, a good digestion, and a heart for any fate. I like this roving life. I like journalism. I like my writing. I meet those unknown men who mould the daily opinions of the masses ; for the busy toilers take in their diurnal beliefs from the journals. ' Printers 1 ink ' is the modern charm, my boy," dilated the scribe. " It brings the blush to beauty's cheek, it flatters the merchant's pride. It builds up and pulls down the statesman's house of cards. Your editor is your modern Warwick. I am a free lance under the flag of journalism. I enjoy this haphazard life. I only eschew two things."

His voice was very grave.

" And they are ? " Burnham interjected.

" Love and politics ! " triumphantly replied Maxwell. " I can't afford to dabble in either."

The wheels rumbling over the classic New York pavements drowned further discussion. Burnham nursed his cigar, dreaming of that hidden fate which was to come to him ; of the romance which his ardent nature craved ; of the utter impossibility of weaving a mystery around his humdrum life in the streets of commonplace New York.

Rousing himself, as the Jehu emerged on the asphalt of the Boulevard, he queried : " What sort of a woman is this Mrs. Selina Francis? "

Maxwell responded, with epigrammatic touches : " Middle-aged, widow, advanced ideas — gifted, gets a strange lot together — earnest, hospitable, honest — doors open to talent, and all that ! "

Burnham groaned inwardly. His agonies were cut short by the arrival at the abode of the hostess.

In five minutes, the mystified Ralph was a fragment of a rapidly revolving human kaleidoscope. Drawing Maxwell aside, after his presentation to Mrs. Selina Francis, from a coign of vantage he surveyed the scene. In the centre of the parlors the hostess (tall, rawboned, and severe) received the homage of a polyglot assembly. While, with a curling lip, Burnham gazed upon the crowd, he indulged in a running commentary which greatly amused his Bohemian comrade.

" Maxwell," he whispered, " these people have no real place in society ; America is crowding them out. There is no medium between Newport and a horde of the useful classes cronying over a pot of beer. This is all imitative, slavish, shabby genteel ! "

" Nonsense ! " retorted Maxwell. " Queerly assorted as these people are, they are real— their feelings are strong, vivid, natural. They are a jumble, but they all have dash, life, and energy. Their code and social laws are as intelligent and well grounded as the pompous edicts of the only McAllister — that high-priest of Fashion and guardian of the social Golden Rose. You must mingle with these people ; you will find some remarkable characters here."

With sly humor Maxweil busied himself, and extended the social circle of his wondering friend, with many strange acquisitions : Signor Pellegrini, of the defunct Grand Opera, a tall, gloomy conspirator ; Miss Alma Atherton, the buxom poetess of the heart, age forty-eight, weight two hundred ; William Jenks, Yankee electrical expert, a sort of human steel trap ; Professor Boompointer, the heavy geologist of the Young Ladies' Seminary at Yonkers ; and Major Grape Shot Canister, of the justly celebrated New York Ninety- Seventh (never missed a parade in his life). " Great

Heavens ! " murmured Burnham, " what an assortment of cranks ! "

Wandering amiably under the guidance of Miss Daisy Quirk, the snappy society reporter of the " New York Strangler," Burnham threaded the double parlors and anterooms. Mrs. Selina Francis' household being arranged in telescopic fashion, it was expanded to its full extent on this festal night.

His fair conductress presented the astounded broker to Senor Castanet de Cuchillo, owner of enormous opal mines in Mexico (on the market) ; Mrs. Jimson Weed, a dashing widow from Chicago (antecedents hazy) ; and Sadie Trapbouncer, the sprightly soubrette, patentee of the Great American Labyrinthine Can-can, (not in tights,) but looking very demure and harmless.

From a safe distance, Maxwell, (a genial Mephisto,) watched with glee Burnham's onward and upward career in Harlem's " best circles."

For, sooth to say, the young broker was at heart a " proper man," and lent himself to the fast-rising jollity of the evening. Sundry music-stands, an open piano, and a suspicious dwarfed case or two, resembling baby coffins, but in reality containing violins and guitars, hinted of an impending musical deluge. In the perspective, a well-furnished table, guarded by severe looking Abigails, promised future refreshment for the " inner man and internal woman."

The final introductions of the evening ceased with Imogen Bryan, the young genius from Colorado, a wild-eyed recitationist ; Tom Powers, the urbane professional base-ball referee ; Mr. Cash Books, the gentlemanly financier from Macy's ; Watson Squires, the unappreciated dramatist ; and Count Irkutsk, the escaped Russian patriot and ex-Nihilist. " Great Scott ! what hair ! " ejaculated Ralph, as the Count waved his mane in friendly salutation.

Escaping gracefully from his fair guide, Burnham, in amused weariness, sought Maxwell, who was bending over a jolly-looking little woman and softly murmuring words whose fervor belied his proverbial fickleness.

Ensconced in a fortification formed by the robes of several ladies, of which charming sex great numbers ornamented the walls, Burnham listened with patience to the music, recitations, poems, and readings in which the Harlemite (male and female) does mightily delight. Too well bred to openly consult his watch, his eyes idly strayed from face to face, after he had vainly tried to lure Maxwell away from that jolly little party, by the eye telegraph.

Alas ! in vain. Lower bent the enamored Maxwell's head. Softly fell the cooing accents of his deceitful voice, rosier red grew the blushes on the cheeks of the plump little woman at his side.

Suddenly, Burnham started as he explored the dim recesses wherein the ladies had taken refuge from the billows of melody, and the sonorous ranting of the literati.

" By Jove ! " he muttered, " there's a woman out of place in this circus ; I would like to see her face."

And this is what the blase Ralph Burnham saw : A woman in the full bloom of life and vigor, — a daughter of the gods ! tall, and with that exquisite shape which turns all heads on the idle promenade.

Simply clad in a robe of amber silk, her delicate hands lay idly crossed before her. An indescribable thrill made Burnham's pulses bound.

And yet he had not seen her face. She was gazing from the window, out into the silent night, where the great white stars were swinging grandly to the west.

Her classic head was nobly poised upon perfect shoulders. Ralph whispered to himself, " A Venus of Milo, with the arms ! "

DELILAH OF HARLEM.

IS

As he gazed, the Amber Lady slowly turned her head, as if Bu'rnham's unspoken wish had reached her stranger heart.

Was it the music ? For a wild strain of some old opera melody floated out through the open windows. No ! She had been impassive before !

She was alone ! Burnham had watched her for minutes too long for his impatient heart so strangely stirred.

Her eyes, vaguely seeking something, rested on Ralph. In their blue depths he saw the signal of Fate : " Come ! I have been waiting for you ! "

Steadily Burnham gazed upon a pale, fair face, perfect in its outline, and calm as the immortal goddess who smiles serenely in the Louvre.

In a moment her splendid eyes sought again the commune of the glittering stars of night.

Burnham picked his way out of the feminine fortress of his retreat, and artfully approached the triumphant Mrs. Selina Francis.

"Am I a fool ? " he muttered, as he neared the hostess, who towered in the glory of her dazzling success, a social priestess of the night. The consciousness of having eclipsed all prehistoric Harlem receptions made her genial heart swell with honest pride. The climax of the evening's festivity was approaching ! That bounteous supper, around whose feebly guarded outworks the soulsatisfied guests were even now beginning to swarm !

A distant tinkle of knives and clatter of forks told of feeble individual attempts to storm the culinary citadel.

When Ralph Burnham asked the favor of a presentation to the " Amber Lady," Mrs. Selina Francis broke into wreathed smiles.

" With the greatest pleasure, my dear sir ! " the duenna replied, for the fame of Morton, Burnham & Co. had penetrated the wild jungles of Harlem, and Burnham, if not the lion, was one of the choicest leonine specimens of the evening. He had that nameless air which attracts, piques, and satisfies critical womanhood !

In a moment, Ralph Burnham was bowing low before the woman whose mute call from those sapphire eyes had lured him to her side !

" Ah ! I must hasten ! " cried the anxious hostess, as the serried columns of hungry guests surged toward the distant tables.

" Marie," she hastily said, with affectionate familiarity, " let me present Mr. Ralph Burnham, of Morton, Burnham & Co. Mr. Burnham, my friend, Mrs. Marie Ashton," and with a flutter of her robes, Mrs. Selina Francis sailed away to the scene of the " impending conflict " !

Burnham was gazing blankly into the deep eyes steadily fixed on him, and caught himself with a start, as, with perfect composure, the lovely beauty said, " Will you not be seated, Mr. Burnham ? "

That voice, low, soft, and musical, with a thrilling undertone of veiled earnestness, recalled Ralph to his senses. It was as he had expected ! Her perfect form, her sweet face, intensely expressive in its expectant beauty — and a voice like the sighing of the summer breeze through the forest ! A lovely wanderer !

That voice echoed from long ago ! It said to him : " I have found you at last. I have called you to me. We are now side by side."

And there, under the starlight, Burnham felt that, in spite of sneer and derision, he had met his fate — in Harlem !

For a moment there was silence. Burnham caught a glimpse of the joyous Maxwell, bearing away in triumph the jolly little woman supperwards.

He disjointedly murmured, " Will you have supper, madam ? Permit me ! — " rising as he spoke.

The Amber Lady motioned him to his seat with her fan : " Thanks ! I prefer not. It is so pleasant here."

DELILAH or HARLEM. 17

Burnham, in the shadowed corner, could only see those wonderful blue eyes gleaming at him over the black lace of her slowly moving fan. A faint suggestion of some delicate perfume seemed to thrill every fibre of his tingling nerves !

Falling into a softly spoken dialogue, the moments glided away. Merry laughter, the sound of popping corks, and the fragmentary converse of the revellers broke in upon their tete-a-tete.

It was not long before Ralph Burnham knew that Marie Ashton was a stranger in New York — that she lived alone. It was easy to conclude that the " Amber Lady " was as unfettered as the man whose beating heart kept time to every musical word dropping from those curved red lips. Their splendid color was of the heart of the reddest rose.

Perfect in manner, a high-bred repose and ease marked her as a wandering Peri in this Harlem Paradise ! — Man of the world, veteran flaneur, Burnham's persiflage could not shake her calm self-possession. His whispered thought (in his inmost soul) was, " I must make Maxwell find out all about her."

In the course of time, even Harlem suppers have an end ! Burnham saw, with satisfaction, the return of Maxwell with his fair charge.

Music and dancing followed the midnight feast. Burnham unwillingly, in view of the convenances, sought his friend and mentor, Maxwell.

Drawing him aside, he carelessly remarked : " By the way, AValter, do you know Mrs. Ashton ? "

"Ah ! yes, but slightly," was Maxwell's reply, as his roving eyes followed the jolly little woman through the mazes of an interminable waltz with a hated rival. " Very nice person ! Very quiet, very stylish. Widow lady from the South or West, I think. No children. I think she has money ! Lives very quietly out here, near the Park ! Elegant apartment — very great friend of Mrs. Francis. Quite superior person. Goes out very little. Do you think her handsome?" concluded Maxwell.

Burnham's words slowly dropped one by one : " I consider her a very charming person ! "

And in fear of self-betrayal, Ralph wandered back to the Amber Lady, still gazing, with those deep blue eyes, into the depths of the silent starlit night.

Marie Ashton welcomed him with a flashing glance, as he reseated himself at her side. In this, Burnham, with fluttering heart and bounding pulses, fancied he could read the calm utterance of a Venus Victrix : " I knew you would come back to me ! "

"Mrs. Ashton," began Burnham, as he noted the hooded and cloaked fair ones beginning to disappear, " I hope I am not presumptuous if I ask the honor of paying my respects to you — at your own home ?"

Marie Ashton steadily gazed over that gently fluttering fan.

" And you would like to see me again, Mr. Burnham ? " she slowly said.

" Most assuredly," Ralph hastily replied.

" I live very quietly," said Marie, her voice lingering over each word, " but if you wish to see me — very much " — a pause, the filmy lace fan beating time to his heart throbs — "you may come."

Ralph's telltale eyes were filled with a strange light. Marie Ashton shivered slightly, and said : " I think, if you will take me to Mrs. Francis, I will say good-night I My carriage is waiting ! "

It was only in rising that Burnham's eager eyes drank in the whole loveliness of the Amber Lady. As her arm rested on his, for the first time, Ralph felt the thrill of a newer life pulsing in his veins. Down the stairway, the Amber Lady on his arm, .Burnham passed out from his debut in the hitherto unknown social deserts of Harlem.

As he made his adieu at the carriage door, the sweet face of the stranger was transfigured in the crystal starlight. Her eyes, shining steadily on him, were even kinder than the sweet low voice, which softly said : " It is, then, only au revoir ! "

She was really gone, the lovely witch, and Ralph Burnham, standing uncovered, gazing after the carriage, dimly remembered that he had hurriedly kissed the little hand which stole out of the window, and had hastily murmured : " Au revoir, bientot, madame ! "

The descent of many departing revellers recalling him, Burnham hastily covered himself, and muttering, " Pshaw ! I'm a fool," lit a cigar while waiting for the lingering Maxwell. That gay youth tarried above, in effusive leave-taking, from the little bouncer who was, for one eventful night, the queen of his most variable and eccentric affections.

" Let's drive down to the club and have a bit of supper," said Burnham, as the coupe bore the voyagers into Harlem back to their familiar haunts.

" I don't mind if I do," cried Maxwell, whose efforts for the comfort of his genial inamorata had driven all thoughts of self out of his head.

" What do you think of Harlem society ? " mischievously demanded the de'bonnaire journalist, after the supper had given way to the last cigar before turning in!

"I think the people at Mrs. Francis are mostly a lot of ill-assorted freaks," replied Burnham ; "but there were some there, in very good form ! "

" I don't suppose you will ever venture up there again," slowly remarked Maxwell, eying Burnham, slyly

" Well, you know, old fellow, I have to call on Mrs. Francis by and by ! Visile dc riguei/r, you know ! " simply replied the young broker.

"Oh ! decidedly ! " rejoined Maxwell. "She receives, informally, always on Sunday evenings. Not a large circle, but a few intimates, like Mrs. Ashton, for instance."

Maxwell's voice had a queer, dry inflection, which grated slightly on his hearer.

" Well ! let's have a nightcap, old man," cried Burnham, and with a warm clasp of hands, in memory of the olden days, the friends separated !

Burnham slowly paced down the silent streets to his splendid apartment, and finished his cigar. He was haunted by two deep blue eyes, whose tender gaze set his pulses madly leaping ! He strolled along, murmuring to himself : " It is, then, only au revoir ! "

And as he laid his head on the pillow, his eyes closed upon a vision of that splendid, sinuous woman in amber, whose folded arms seemed to open to him. In his uneasy dreams he saw the Venus of Milo restored — sentient with throbbing life — an olden goddess born again in these latter days. Was it only a fickle fancy — a wild vision of the night — that she drew him to her royal breast and whispered : " I have waited for you long ! " It was as real as all of love's madness ! — Ralph Burnham dreamed wild dreams, all unwitting of the unknown future stretching dark and mysterious before him.

In a grand room, where the breezes from Central Park were wafted through silken curtains, Marie Ashton listened to the wheels of her departing carriage. Her beautiful face was bowed in her slender hands !

Ringing a silver bell, she raised her head as dusky Fanny, alert, nimble, and watchful, thrust her bronzed face through the door.

" Give me my robe de chambre, Fanny ! " said the mistress.

When easily reclining in a deep chair, Marie Ashton kindly said : " You may go, Fanny ! You are tired ! "

DELILAH OK HARLEM. 2 1

"Honey ! you looked jess' beautiful to-night ! " cried the departing maid.

"Yes! Better than usual ! " bitterly murmured Marie, as the silence of the room told her she was alone.

Loosening her rippling golden hair, she leaned her tired head on the velvet cushions. As her eye strayed around the room, with all its dainty embellishment of costly art and precious trifles dear to woman, she locked her shapely hands behind her head ! With her gleaming arms (silvery in their whiteness) bent over her, she brokenly faltered :

" My God ! To live another life ! To live far away from here — to forget the past — to defy the future in one single year of peace ! "

Yet back to her thoughts came the impassioned face of Ralph Burnham as he said "good-night!" — His kisses still lingered on the blue-veined hand, with its sparkling rings spanning the rosy-tipped fingers.

" He looks a man ! A real man ! Not a living lie ! — My God ! " and her face stiffened into stone, " if he should love me ! and — worse than all — if I should love him ! I will not drag him down with me ! I will not lead him on ! I will be cruel to him, that I may be kind."

She rose and poured with trembling hand a few drops from a crystal flask into a little water. Throwing herself on the luxurious bed, worthy of a queen, Marie Ashton murmured, as her eyelids closed, " If it were not for Tom Overton — yes — Tom Overton " — and she passed out into the wide world of dreams, to waken with the birds again, and hide her heart-sorrows under a smiling goddess face.

DELILAH OF HARLEM.

CHAPTER H.

LOVE IN THE PARK. AT THE BANK. MR. THOMAS OVER. TON'S AFTERNOON CALL.