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VOL. I. [For the Banner of the South.] An Appeal. Corue back to Acadia, darling, Come nestle close up to my breast; Come weep out the bitterness, darling, And Heaven will whisper the rest. Forget we ever were park'd, And dream it was only to-day, That we walked through a pathway of roses. Two light-hearted children at play. Forget that a serpent, empoisoned, Crept, cunningly, under the flowers; Tlic-re was one in the primeval ilden, As well as this Eden of ours. Remember that lore is immortal, Its Heaven-born germ never dies; Come bach to our Paradise, darling, My only one under the skies, The shadows am chased by the sun-ight, The ftunbow comes after the shower, My dear little modest-eyed darling, My i>oor little broken-leaved flower. 'Die morning’s incarnadined glory’, Must banish the terrors of night, A Wrong, tn the blessed hereafter, Will quail at the banner of Right. Then come to me, lovingly, darling, And nestle close up to my breast; Here weep out the bitterness, darling, And Heaven will whisper the rest. Fidelia. ■ « ♦ [Written for tho Banner of the South.] The Earls of Sutherland. BY RUT H FAIRFAX, CHA FTF.R 111. [COXUNFED. | Ihe next day, and the next, passed without affording the wished for oppor tunity, but on the third day it was offered, and Emily was not slow to avail herself of the chance. All the young* people left the house in a body to visit some roman tic scenery, about five miles distant. Emily declined going; she saw them start, and having made her uncle’s sofa i catty for him, left him to his morning nap. _ Now, was her time, and, with un faltering steps, she ascended the stairs, took the key from its hiding place, and opened the door. A long, narrow*, dark passage lay be fore tier, but still there was light enough to enable her to see her way. Cautious ly she advanced, and presently she saw Ri the dim light an open space, which was the beginning of a flight of steps; she ascended these and, opening a small door, at the top, she found herself standing on a hrend platform, and, looking down, re cognized the entrance hall of the old cas- Ee. She had looked up at this platform only the day before, but the staircase had been removed, and she never expected to i each it; she remembered, too, that she had thought the hall to be a great deal better than it had been represented to be, ; <nd that but little repair would be neces sary to put it in ite usual condition, ‘‘but I must not stop here,” she said to herselt, “I am wasting time.” A door on the right stood open, one on the left Mus dosed, to this door she advanced, juid, with unhesitating, fingers turned the buit. The room was but poorly furnish ; it contained a bed, a table and tw 7 o chairs : not a particle of dust was to be ■ M '°n, and the room had an air of having 'on lately used. In the right hand cor ner of the room, on the side farthest from die door, stood a tall statue, elevated on a white marble pedestal, about three feet 1Ul!1 Eic floor. The hands were chained b'gether, and from the central link de h nded another chain, which was fastened at its other extremity to the wail. A\ hat on earth is the meaning of T ls -" exclaimed Emily, in surprise. ‘ s he walked up to the statue, and reached U P ber hand to the chain, it was too high or her to clasp it, but Emily was active, and a vigorous spring enabled her to oatch it; as she hung by her hand, for a moment or two, she felt herself swinging “found, and, looking up, she saw that the statue had moved from its place, disclos ing an opening in the wall. Here was a discovery indeed, and, with redoubled energy, she clung to the chain, and soon stood upon the pedestal, from which the statue had moved, and with cautious movements peered into a room which was thus exposed to her view. Near the door stood a small table, on which was ar ranged a delicate breakfast service. The tiny silver coffee urn was still steaming with its fragrant contents. An elegant bedstead stood in the cen tre of the floor, and ifs curtains of white muslin fell in graceful masses around it. A low sofa was drawn near a small ta ble, on which lay a number of books. There were no windows in the rooms, at least they had been closed up, and only tiny loop-holes left. Air and light were supplied through an opening in the roof, which could be opened, or closed, at will, by any one in the room. As she stood by the table, looking at the break fast things, which had evidently just been used, a low voice asked : “Who is it?” and a slight delicate figure came from be hind the bed. Emily’s first impulse was to fly through the open door, but a second glance reassured her, and she stood still, looking with curious eyes at the stranger who regarded her with an expression of astonishment, almost of terror, in his eyes. And yet there was nothing terrible about Emily. Her soft brown hair rip pled away from her fair brow, and the long heavy curls were confined at the back of her neck with a rose-colored rib bon, while her gentle brown eyes were mir rors of the tender feelings of her heart. This morning she wore a simple white morning dress, with a kind of rose-col ored ribbon at the throat. Neither was there anything terrifying in the aspect of of the one who stood before her. lie was not very tall, and slight, almost fra gile, in form ; his hands were small and white; his hair, a dark flaxen, was long and curly; his eyes, blue and beautiful. Though changed, by time and sorrow, Emily easily recoguized the original of the pictuer in her possesion. She noted, too, that he wore the dress ing gown she had made for her uncle, and Regie’s lost slippers were on his feet. “Who are you ?” he asked, at length. “Emily Mortimer,” answered our he roine coolly, though her heart was throb bing violently, “and who arc you ?” The young man gazed at her a mo ment, and then answered, sadly, “I have no name; it is dead ; how did you find me ?” I “I knew yon were sick, or that some j body was sick, and I wanted to know who itwas, What can Ido for you ?” Her voice was tender, and her eyes expressed the sympathy that her lips, as yet, refused to utter. Sympathy is sweet, and doubly sweet was it to this poor forlorn man. He went up to her, and, taking her hand, asked : “Are you very sorry for me?” “Oh, so sorry 1” answered Emily, look ing kindly into his sad blue eyes; “you must be so sad, so lonely, here. Can’t I do something for you ? Do you stay here always ?” “Will you listen to my story ?” he asked. “Certainly I will, if 3’ou don’t mind telling it to me.” “Will you believe me ?” he asked eagerly. And she answered, without hesitation, “I will.’* He seemed surprised. “Nobody ever believes me,” he said, “but I hope you will. But tell me, first, who are you ?” “I am the Earl's neice, his sister’s child. ” . “Oh ! his neice! Well, listen to me, I ! will not tell you my name until you have heard my story. Do you know they say I am a. madman ? and they tried me for the crime, it was many years ago, hut I do not think I was guilty, oh, indeed, I do not; will you believe me ? I was not guilty.” .A. XT GTJ ST A., SEPTEMBER 12, 1868. “I do believe you,” answered Emily, “I am sure you were not guilty; but tell me how it was.” “Alas !” he answered, pressing his hand to his forehead. “I cannot remem ber—l never could remember. T remem ber the dead man, but I don’t know how I found him, nor when I left him. I think the sight made me mad. I was but a mere boy, only sixteen, don’t yofl think the horror must have made me crazy ?” “Oh, no, ’ answered Emily, “you are not crazy you have only forgotten; and you were tried for the murder ?” “Yes.” “And were you not honorably acquit ted ?” “No, ” he exclaimed, and a wild look flashed into his eyes; “I was con demned !” “Oh, you were found guilty, and had to submit to the ignominy of being pardon ed for a crime which you had never com mitted.” “ Pardoned! No! I was executed!” It would be impossible to describe the voice of gloomy horror with which he pro nounced the words. Emily sprang from his side with a cry of terror; “decidedly he is crazy,” she said to herself. “Oh ! don’t leave me, don’t leave me,” he exclaimed, in a voice of pleading agony, “you don’t know how lonely lam.” # Emily immediately returned to his side, and touching his arm replied : “1 will not run away from you, but tell me what you mean, how was it ?” “I can’t tell how it was, I am so con fused, but I know I saw the crowd, the scaffold, the rope; and after that there was a long, long sleep; when I awoke I was in this room; I have never left it since. They say I am in danger of losing my life ; is not this a living death ? They shrink from me, Emily, they think mo guilly. I said Emily, am Ito call you so ?” “Oh, yes, call me Emily, if you wish. Will you let me go now? I will come again.” “Will you certainly come again ?” “I will, the very first time I can find an opportunity.” “Don’t tell any one you have seen me,” he pleaded, as she was about to close the door behind her. “Bo assured I will keep your secret,” she answered, and pushing the statue back to its place, she hastened to her own room. Here, after, closing the door, she stood for many minutes contemplating the picture of the young lord. “No !” she said aloud, “he is not guil ty, and mine be the task to prove him in nocent !” She mused a few moments and then continued: “I wish he could tell me everything; evidently he is not crazy; his mind is not broken—it is only out ot tune ; who can he be ? Alas, what a fate, so young, so beautiful!” And so she mused on , until she was roused by the entrance of her sisters, who had re turned from their ride. And, now, while her heart was filled with sadness, she must listen to Eugenia’s mirthful sallies, and to Amy’s poetieol description of the Falls, r l he two hours yet to pass, before dinner, seemed interminable; so, to get away from their lively conversation, she entered the bedroom, and, closing the windows, rested herself on the bed for an hour, and then rose to dress for dinner. CiTAPTER IV. Two weeks passed away, and Emily had not yet made her promised visit to the prisoner. It was not her wish that this should bo; not a day passed that did not find her watching for an opportunity to visit him, but she was disappointed, day alter day, until her anxiety evinced itself in a feverish impatience, unaccount able to every one but herself. If these were her feelings, what must have been those of the unfortunate man, who, for the first time, in nearly sixteen years, had tasted the sweetness of human sympathy? For the first three or four da vs he awaited her re-appearance with a calm expecta tion; then, as days passed on, he became eagerly impatient, fretful and nervous, to an alarming degree. One night, as Emi ly was dreaming over again the night when she had first heard his cry of agony, her feelings were so much excited that as she awoke, with a start, she imagined that his cry was still ringing in her cars. She heard a voice, indeed, but it was Marmaduke’s, who was softly knocking at the door, and calling her by name. Rising hastily from her bed, she threw her feet into a pair of slippers, and, wrapping a dressing gown around her, opened the door. “Father wauts you,” was all that Mar madukc said. She noticed that he was very pale, and fearing that something terrible had be fallen her uncle, she followed her cousin with trembling steps. But Marmaduke did not descend the stairs which led to his father’s room; he passed through tho door at the end of the entry, which was wide open. In an instant she knew whore he was leading her, and she won dered more intensely than before why she had been sent for. When she enter ed the room leading to the secret cham ber, she saw that the statue had been re moved from its place, and her uncle stood in the aperture, waiting for her. With out saying a word, Marmaduke lifted her in his arms and placed her on the pedes tal; the Earl then took her hand and led her into the room. A silence, as of death, reigned within, and after the first hasty glance around the room, her eyes remained fastened in their glances to the bed. The unfortunate stranger was lying on the bed, his bright blue eyes gleam ing with almost the fire of insanity. Cuthbert and Gerard were sitting by the bed, their gloomy faces, almost repul sive, in the darker shadow that lay upon them. Emily drew back. “Are you afraid ?” asked the Earl, “This is not the first time you have seen Ormand; lie has been calling 3*oll. You have discovered my secret, I know not how; but go to him.” Emily advanced to the bedside, and, taking his hand in hers, said: “I have come again to see you; do you remember me ?” His eyes grew calmer as he looked at her, and he answered in a low, calm voice: “I remember you—it is Emily.” “Yes, it is Emily; can Emily do any thing for you ?” she tried to smile, but her voice was choked with tears. She picked up a handkerchief, that was lying on the bed, and gently wiped away the heavy drops that were standing ou his brow. lie smiled in answer. But what a rare smile it was! like a solitary ray of suulight, bursting through a dark cloud, it illumined bis face for an instant, and then passed away. His eyelids closed, and, in a few moments, he slept. “lie is sleeping,” whispered Cutbbert, and the Earl came close to Emily’s side. “Heaven bless you, my child,” lie whis pered, “you have saved him many hours of suffering; he sometimes has these fits of nervous phrenzy, when his mind has been more than ordinarily engaged in contemplating his past sufferings. 1 have never seen him calmed before, until rfter hours of acute suffering. You have soothed him, as if by magic.” “What is his name ?” asked Emily. “Don’t you know his name ?” the Earl looked surprised. Emily shook her head. “His name is Ormand Sutherland.” “And who is Ormand Sutherland ?” “My eldest son,” replied the Earl, with a deep groan. “Oh, my poor Uncle!” exclaimed Emi ly, throwing her arms around his neck, and weeping bitterly. Day was shining brightly in the East, before Emily left the bedside of her sleep-1 iDg cousin, and hastening to her room she ! found that her sisters bad not yet awaked. j She immediately rang the bell for her 1 maid, and commenced her toilet. Eugenia! was roused by her moving about the room, 1 and jumping from the bed she playfully pulled Amy after her. Emily was a little longer over her toilet than usual, albeit it was very simple when finished. A iresh pink muslin dress, with pink rib bons, made her look handsomer, in our e3 7 es at least, than did Eugenia in her far richer attire. After breakfast she went to the library door, and, knocking softly, asked permis sion to enter. Her uncle’s voice re sponded affirmatively. “Dear uncle,’ - she said, as soon as she had closed the door after her, “will 3*oll let me go to my cousin ? he is sick and lonely.” “Emily, you know not what you ask; do 3 7 0 u know what he is !” “I know that he is my cousin, I know that he is unhappy, let me go ?” “Oh child, child, must Isa it, will you force me to it? Alas, though he is m3 7 son, he is —a murderer!” As if the last word had exhausted all his strength, the old Earl covered his face with his hands, and let his head fall on the desk before him. “No uncle,” exclaimed Emily, with energy, “he is not guilty, I do not believe it; I will not believe it. Look up, uncle Hugh, and tell me that yon do not har bor such a suspicion ?” “Alas! my child, would that I could say I do not. Sit here, and, if I can command myself sufficiently, I will relate to you briefly, the awful occurrence that has thrown such a shadow over my house hold, and condemned all my noble hoys to be pointed at by the finger of scorn, as the brothers of a murderer. When Or mand was about sixteen, there came to the village of Lea, Sir Howard Montague and his family, comprised of his son, a daughter, and a young Italian girl, of lovely face and form, who was Miss Mon tague’s companion. Ormand soon be came very friendly with young Monta gue, though he was several years older than himself. Miss Montague was not older than you, Emily, but the Italian, Magnolia they called her, was twenty. My boy visited the Montagues frequent ly, and, before I knew, or even thought, of such a thing, he was raving like a poet, or a foolish boy, as he was, about the beautiful Magnolia, t never demon strated with him, I knew it would do no good, hut I kept a strict watch over him, to see that no secret marriage was con tracted. I believod, Emily, that she was but playing with my poor boy for her own amusement. Let it pass. After awhile I noticed that Ormand looked sad and gloomy. I demanded the reason in vain. One morning, he got up by daylight, and left the house; oh! that Iliad followed him; lie came hack in less than an hour ; I did not see him when he came in, hut I heard him rush up stairs with a hasty, I irregular stop, and, in a few minutes, I ; went up after him. He occupied the room where you found the secretaire , and there l found him, seated before it in his arm chair. ITis head was uncovered, his hair was tossed and tumbled about his face, and his aight hand and arm were wet with blood, while his eyes were glaring wildly at a portrait of Magnolia’s which he had been painting. I took him by his arm and shook him rudely, asking where lie had been ? lie gave me no answer, and, endeavoring to find the source of the blood, which stained his arm and hand, I hastily tore his coat off and looked, in vain, for a wound. Then, was I terrified indeed. In vain I tried to arouse him, to make him understand what I was say ing. I suppose I had been engaged in my fruitless attempts over half an hour when I heard rough voices in the hall below, and presently a tramping of heavy feet on the stairs. I opened the door to see what it meant; alas! I knew too soon. My son had committed a murder, and they were come to arrest him. I could not understand what they said to me then, hut what I learned afterward was this : Ode of my tenants, who was well acquainted with Ormand, and, also, No. 26.