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'' ========== == “U“ VOL. I. [For the Banner of the South.] Come Back. Conic back, ye gorgeous dreams of loug ago, Gilded and fretted with the purest gold Os my young heart’s affections, in whose flow The shining ripples gleamed with wealth untold; Come with that radiant beauty through your forms, Be evanescent, still the beaten trac k Os mem’ry ye may traverse, and the storms Os dark reality—come back! come back! Come back, the dear departed, ye who sleep Beneath the grassy mound, and you whose grave Is far away, where Indian maidens steep Their raven tresses in the swelling wave; Come, soothe the weary longing and the pain, And we shall rove once more the flowery track Os childhood, pure and innocent again— Those days will all return—come back! come back ! Come back, sweet visions of a happy heart, When truth and joy were inmates of my breast, Ere my young life had learned from hope to part, Ere it was filled with doubts and wild unrest; Come, and to meet you buried thoughts shall fly From out their gloomy tombs and caverns black, And, in the trembling lip and tearful eye, Your welcome shall be read—Come back! come back ! Come back, 0 faith in humau worth, and truth, Trust in the future, pleasure in the past; Courage that filled me iu the hours of youth, Ere my horizon’s brightness was overcast— Come, in your purity and radiant guise, 0 Love, that shed such sweetness on my path— What ? are there tears within my longing eyes ? Have pity on my grief!—Come back! come back! Fidelia. [FOB THE BANNER OF THE FOETH.] THieeyißlTlWlii. Translated from “ Le Correspondant.” BY R. D. TANARUS., OF SOUTH CAROLINA. [continued,] “Once more, Mademoiselle, I tell you, you have only to speak,” said Etienne, who was gradually recovering his self possession. “Then listen well. When we will be all together at table, by and by, we will, of course, be chatting pleasantly, as usual. I will make it my business to lead the conversation to a certain subject I know of, and suddenly I will say to my grandfather, * Ask Etienne’s opinion’— or, perhaps, I may say to you, ‘ Come, Etienne, let us hear what you think.’ ou understand me so far, do you not ?” “Perfectly.” “Then it will be your turn to speak ; ami I am going to tell you what you are to say. Do try and understand it at once, that I may not be obliged to lepeat.” “Be satisfied, I will not lose one word.” Margaret paused a moment, as if to collect herself; then, turning an earnest look upon the young man, with the evident intention of making him withdraw hi> gaze from her, she replied, in a voice which it required no little effort on her part to keep clear and unfaltering: “Speaking to my grandfather, you will say to him, in as deoided a manner as you can : ‘Eh bien ! mafoi! one must do what one can, If you insist on it, Blaster, I will tell you now what I think!’ Y:m must say that,” continued Margaret, ‘ with a great deal of animation ; because there is but little in the words themselves; everything will depend upon the manner 1Q v 'hich you will utter them ! Do you understand ?” 'Yes, oh, yes!” said Etienne, in an aosent kind of way, for he was entirely pre-occupied in trying to guess what was to follow. ‘I go on, now—follow me, if you please 1 am going now to speak in your per son : The other evening, master, you did U' t seem pleased, when I kept to myself uiy reason for not wishing to marry ; you kindly and politely" sent me to the Devil, reproaching me with thwarting you, and being amongst those who bad prejudiced Mademoiselle Margaret against marriage, -ihis reproach was painful to me. It has weighe i on my heart, and, for this rea son, if you still wish it, I will tell you the truth to-day. Listen, then’ ” Etienne was going to speak, evincing some sign of uneasiness, blit Margaret prevented him. “Can you remember all this ? If yoif do change a word here or there, I will not mind it, provided you give my meaning, and provided, above all, that you speak with great spirit.” And then she resumed, in the most matural manner, not thinking it necessary to remind Etienne, this time, that she was still speaking in his person: “ ‘Yes, master, listen to the truth. If I do not think of marrying, it is not that I have any prejudice against marriage. On the contrary, if it depended only on myself, I would soon be married.” Here Etienne’s lips parted, as though he must speak, but Margaret again forced him to be silent. “Listen still,” she said, with peremptory sweetness, and continued : “ ‘Yes, very soon, master ; but that does not depend upon me. This is my 7 idea —l am one of those who think that, before dreaming of addressing a young girl, one must love her, love her dearly ; be able to say that he will always love her for herself alone, for her good qualities, and for her beauty, if she possesses it; not giving too much thought to any property she may possess of her own, still less to those miserable calculations that are called expectations from relatives .” “Oh ! how grandly you speak, Mademoiselle!” cried Etienne, who im mediately regretted that he had spoken. “You find this interprets your feelings, truly ?” said Margaret, with a bewitching smile ; “so much the better, it will be all the easier for you to say it. But let us go on : ‘ Now, master, here is exactly what I have done. I have loved, without dreaming of anything but loving truly and well. I have found a y'oung girl, who, it seems to me, possesses a great heart, and some beauty.’ ” Had Etienne been able to notice any thing at that moment, he would certainly have seen that Margaret cast down her eyes as she said this, and that her voice trembled in a most unusual manner. “ ‘And, ma foi! I have given all my heart to this young girl, without remem bering—aud Iso poor !—that she’s rich in her own right, and has also great ex pectations from her relatives. And, then, when I did remember this, I felt much disturbed; for I thought to myself, if I declare my love for her, everybody will cry it is her wealth I desire ; no matter what I may assert to the contrary, I will not be believed. They will say', ‘Why should it not be so with him ? he is so poor, while the rich themselves are often actuated by such matters’—and I will be rejected, master, as one not loving truly— I who love so much, so truly, and so well!—and, for all the world, I would not be suspected of loving her money, or of prizing it more than I do her fresh young heart! This is my pride, which I cherish, because it is dear to me. Then, I said to myself: ‘I will not expose my true and honest love to those miserable suspicions, from the very thought of which I nervously shrink. I will be silent; no one shall ever know it, and if I am asked why I do not marry, I shall simply say, because I choose to remain single—not one word more. This is the only 7 course left to me ; the only 7 way in which I can preserve my self-respect.’ ” Margaret could have continued now, without the least danger of being inter rupted by Etienne, who became alternate ly pale and flushed ; with a troubled, un certain kind of look; he seemed spell-bound, as though in a dream; he asked himself if it were true that another could thus be speaking aloud the cherished secret of his heart ! But Margaret being silent for a moment, he seemed roused to conscious ness. “Yf hat ! Mademoiselle !” he cried, “you wish me to say that ?” AUGUSTA, GLL, AUGUST 15, 1868. “Yes,” replied Margaret, “that and even more !” “But only think, Madamoiselle—” “Think what ? Think that it is a great effort for you to do this for me ? Tell me, Etienne, in promising to help me, did you not say, “ ‘lt matters not, I will do it V 7 ’ “That is true,” ho replied vehemently. ‘ All right, then ; I will proceed. Re member your lesson well; now, lam speaking again in your person : * The other evening, master, I did not wish to make my secret known to you ; this even ing, on the contrary, I intend telling you everything-—even the name of the one I love so tenderly.’” Margaret spoke more and more slowly, as though she wished to mark the effect of her words on Etienne, who looked at her with strange earnestness. “ ‘lt is my opinion,” 7 continued she, “ 'that you will no longer reproach me with wishing to contradict you, nor with trying to prejudice your daughter against marriage ; for, most certainly, you will understand, why I did not at first wish to reveal my secret to you.’ ” Margaret paused a moment ; then con tinued, hurriedly, though sensibly lower ing her voice : “ ‘The name of the young girl is Mar garet Coudret.’ ” Then, without appearing to notice the great shock which seemed almost to over whelm Etienne, she resumed, in the most quiet manner: “That is all you will have to say. So I think 1 may rely upon you. I thank you now in advance, and will thank you again, afterwards.” And here she seemed to wish to put an end to the interview, “But, Mademoiselle, truly—what ?” stammered Etienne, “you truly wish, you truly think—you ?” He sought in vain for words, which refused to come to his aid. “I think,” replied Margaret, quickly, “that you will not fail me your promise. I require this service of you. Will you not keep your word ? Or, shall I seek for someone else to aid me ?” “I did not say so, Mademoiselle,” timidly remonstrated Etienne, who began at last to recover his senses. “Very well,” said Margaret, in an im patient and haughty manner, “if you wish to be untaue to me, say so; if you feel at all afraid , I beg you will tell me.” “ Afraid /” exclaimed Etienne, whom this offensive word seemed most effectu ally to rouse “Afraid of what, Mademoi selle ?” “How can I tell ?” replied the young girl, quietly. “No, I am not afraid,” said the youth, with calm dignity; then added, in a softer tone, as lie bent a searching glance upon the thinking girl: “And when I shall have said all that, Mademoiselle, what then ? I ask you, what then ?” “After that,” said Margaret, whose turn it now seemed to become confused and shy ; “oh, well, after that”—then, as if suddenly recovering her self-possession, “/ know the consequences,” she cried, trying to assume a playful air, “but you cannot be satisfied to take everything, for the present, on trust. Now this import ant matter is settled, is it not ?” “Pardon me, Mademoiselle,” Etienne quietly persisted, “you spoke of a lesson I was to give; as yet, Ido not see any thing like—” “Rut is it not enough that I see it ? Is it not enough that I make it my affair ? Is it not right and proper that it should be so ?” replied Margaret, who was far, very far, from feeling the confidence im plied by her words. “Yes, it is right,” said Etienne, gravely. There was a moment’s silence, after this, of which Etienne availed himself, to east a searching and eager look upon the young girl, the consciousness of which scrutiny she betrayed by her deep blush and embarrassed aif. “After all,” she said suddenly, with a certain tone of decision, though she had not yet the courage to look up; “after all, if you do not think it right, let it alone, and say no more about it.” “I did not say that, Mademoiselle.” “Then, what did you say ?” “I said, and I say, Mademoiselle, that I will do all I can for you, according to my promise.” ‘ Very wall; lam satisfied.” Saying this, she turned suddenly from him, and returned to the Mill, affecting an air of indifference she was far from feeling. It never seemed to strike her, however, that she was returning empty handed from the fowl house, where she had gone, ostensibly, in search of eggs! Etienne appeared to be singularly pre-occupied and absent, as be left the yard, crossing over to the stable, to look after the animals, that were awaiting his care. XVI. IT IS ENOUGH. It was night. Jean Marie, chilled and nearly worn out, had, perhaps, for the twentieth time, looked up and down in every direction, where, at last, he distin guished the form of the old Miller, and went out in all haste to meet him. Taking advantage of his privilege as guest of the Coudret Mill, he was prepar ing himself to address some remonstrance to him at his post, and perhaps exact an explanation of his long and unexpected absence. Rut Xavier took good care not to let him have the opportunity, “Ah! laissez done!" said he, throwing up his arms violently, and being most careful not to slacken the speed at which he was walking ; “do not speak to me of it! lam just in the mood to-night to beat my own father! There are some people in this world—do you see ?—who don’t care how much others are incon venienced ; people who want all the profit, and are not willing to give any chance to others ! But now that I think of it, where the devil did you take yourself off to, this morning, after I left you ? I looked for you every where, to tell you I was going out.” “I was just there; I did not go away.” “That’s droll ! not under the trees out there ?” “Yes; just there !” “Well! I did not see you ! I thought, however, I would only be absent an hour or two. Rut I met a little boy, who accosted me, and said that Claude Huchon, of Saint Blaise, sent for me on business. Do you know him, this Claude Huchon, of Saint Blaise ?” “No, I do not.” “Nor Ilonore Divand, of Creux Cour bon ?” “No; neither of them.” “You have never had any dealings with them, then ?” “Never!” “Well ! between ourselves, then, you have two sharpers the less among your acquaintances. They do business to gether, dealing in corn, in grain, in Hour, in fodder, in horses, in all sorts of things! and though they live three hour’s journey apart, they are as closely joined as two kernels in the same nut! No! no! I told them again and again, that sooner than turn my mill-stones on their terms, I would raise the flood gates, give the meadow the benefit of the water, and let the great w’heel be still forever !” And saying this with great energy, Xavier quickened his step more and more as they neared the Mill, notwith standing Jean Marie’s indirect efforts to retain him. He could scarcely keep up with him, and saw, with infinite chagrin, how much the distance was shortened by each rapid step, dreading that he would lose his only chance for seeing the old man privately. But Xavier was up to him. “You cannot imagine,” he said, pre tending to be out of breath, and taking off his hat to wipe his forehead ; “no, no! you cannot possibly imagine what trot ting up and down,backward and forward, these knaves have given me ! It would be too long to tell you. Ma foi ! from Saint Blaise to Creux Courbon; from Creux Courbon back to Saint Blaise ! Claude Huchon could do nothing without Honore Divand; Ilonore Divand could do nothing without Claude Huchon! First, we went to one, then trotted back to the other ! If I have not walked ten leagues I have not walked ten steps ! And, after all, we made no bargain—not even for one bushel! It was a good job to lose, too ! It would have given me two weeks’ work—but to work just for the sake of using my millstones ? Ah, no ! it would never pay ! We shall not be idle, though, from the loss of their grain; we have plenty of good customers still left, thank God ! I can always get along ! But supper must be ready, now. I am so tired ! I will just swallow a mouthful of soup, toss off a glass of wine; then “bonsoir le compaigne /” This volley of words brought Xavier to the door-sill, which he stepped over more nimbly than one would have expected, who had just heard the repeated assever ation of being broken down and exhaust ed. Perhaps, too, he was nerved by the thought that he had cunningly escaped the communication he felt sure Jean Marie had in store for his return. “Oh !” said Jean Marie, taking hold of the good man by his collar, and standing just in front of him ; “oh, yes! but mean time, you must, if you please, Pere Cou dret, listen to me for a moment. I have much to say to you of our affair.” “There*? Just here ? in the yard? Why, everybody can see us !” “No; it is too dark. Besides, there is nothing so very astonishing in my speak ing to you on your return; and, in short, seen or not seen, I must speak with you! There is no time to be lost. That morose, devil-of-a-mil!-boy of yours, sus pects something wrong. lie has thrown my grain into the Mill!” “Bali! that is bad !” “And you should see, Pore Coudret, how rapidly he is throwing off my sacks !” “Wait, I will go and stop him !” “Do you think,” said Jean Marie, “it will be best to do it ? We must be cau tious, though we must also make good use of our time.” “Speak on, then.” “Well, listen intently.” “I will. But, if you please, be quick. Just see! lam saturated with perspira tion! lam positively streaming 1 If you do not let me go, at once, and change my clothes, I shall certainly be ill” “Well, I proceed, then. Listen!” “I am all ear.” And Xavier, his eyes twinkling, and his head bent down, pretended to give Jean Marie the particular hearing, the undivided and earnest attention of a lawyer, who follows minutely the state ment of his client, that la* may be ready to seize upon any point that may help his cause. “What we have been trying to find,” said the young man, in a low tone, “was some tangible excuse tor dismissing that rude boor, who is in charge of your Mill.” “Yes,” said Xavier, complacently. “Very well, I have fixed it. As soon as we will be seated at table, to-night, I will take it upon myself to lead the con versation to a certain subject; and in such a way, that he will be compelled to take a part, and betray himself.” “All very well; but remember, I will have no wrangling at rny table,” said Xavier, though it would have required but little penetration to see that he was, by no means alarmed, though he gave this warning. No. 22.