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2 very fond of him, having left his house very early that morning, met Ormand, and surprised at seeing him out so early, spoke to him. ‘You are astir very early this morn ing my lord.’ •Yes/ replied Ormand, ‘I am going to take a walk,’ and, as he seemed in haste, the man left him. As this same man was returning to his house, about half an hour afterward, he heard a suc cession of fearful shrieks, in the direc tion of the cliffs. He hurried onward, and soon beheld, though at some distance from him, the form of a man lying on the sand, and another man bending over him While he looked this second one raised his hand high above his head, something bright sparkled in the faint rays of the morning sun, and when the hand fell it was upon the breast of the prostrate man. Then again he heard a scream of fearful agony; the murderer sprang away from his victim, and ran rapidly along the sands; he came to wards this man, who had been the wit ness of his fearful deed, and, as he passed with a speed defying pursuit, he was re cognized as Ormand Sutherland, and in his hand he held a poiguard, from which the warm blood was dripping. 'At the park gates he passed the porter, who looked at his bloody clothes and wild air with terror. The murdered man was young Howard Montague. A letter was picked up on the sands addressed to Mag holia Dolenti, and signed by my wretched boy. It breathed the warmest strain of passion, intermixed with burning words of jealousy, bitter expressions regarding young Montague, and wild reproaches directed againstjherself. At the trial, Magnolia was a witness against my boy. She said that Ormand had often declared In; would kill Montague if he came be tween them, and she acknowledged with bitter tears, that she had told Ormond, only the day before, that she was engaged to Montague. Ormand seemed perfectly stupefied; he attempted no defence, and, when spoken to by his counsel, gave only the wildest and most incomprehensible answers. Enough, lie was condemned, and the sentence was carried out. Al most broken-hearted, I received his body, to give it decent burial, and conveyed it home. Alas! new grief awaited me there —my wife had just breathed her last; ’twas as well. My elder boys and my self stripped our Ormand of his blood stained clothes, which he had always re fused to give up, and wiped the damp ness from, his face. A slight twitching of his lips convinced me that life was not extinct, and, after a lew minutes of ac tive exertions, we had the poor satisfac tion of seeing him sit up. We had borne him to the room where he is now, and there we kept him. That night the coffiu was buried, the servants only were wit nesses. The next morning they left the place in a body, with the exception of Jeffrey, Dora, and her infant daughter. I have had no other servants since. All my boys, except Reginald and Arthur, knew it; they do not even know that such a being ever existed, though they must think it strange that we live in this iso lated manner. I feared that all would have to be revealed to them some years ago, when I had the crest and motto of the Earldom erased from the panels of my carriage. Rut such was their affec tion for me that, when they saw it pained me, they refrained from questioning me. I had been to church, and was just step ping into my carriage, when 1 heard someone remark in a loud tone, as he pointed to the motto : “One of them has been considerably elevated,” you know the motto; ‘Elevated and without stain.’ Another answered him; ‘I think he has been, with a toler able red stain though.’ I almost fell headlong into the carriage. I have never used the motto since, my guilty boy has deprived the future Earls of Sutherland, if ever there are any, of the right to use it.” “Guilty, nncle ? did you say guilty? Oh, shame that you , above all others, should use the word. Unfortunate, but guilty! never!” exclaimed Emily indig nantly. ” “And do you still think him innocent?” “I do, indeed, 1 sec nothing in all you have told me to cause me to change my opinion; it is very plain tome he found the body of his friend, he drew the dag ger from the wound, and, overcome by the horror of the scene, he fled. May he not have known the murderer, and may not this knowledge have paralyzed his mind for the time ?” “Emily, what do you mean—you do not mean to say”— “I say nothing, uncle; but what be came of the Italian?” “I do not know. She went away with Sir Howard and his daughter. I have never heard of them since.” Will you give me permission to visit my cousin ?” “You encourage me to hope that Or mand maybe innocent. Go tohim then, if you will, you may learn something from him; he has never attempted to exculpate himself to me. To us, lie has always ap peared sullen and indifferent.” “Poor Ormand ! Sullen, indeed. Who would not be so to those who approached them with countenances on which was plainly written, “I believe you to be a murderer?” lie knows that I believe him innocent, and he trusts me.” Emily said this while unlocking the door, and she lost no time in seeking her cousin’s room. He was more than pleased to see her, and after this time at least, one hour of every day was devoted to him. In the course of two months she was delighted to ob serve a decided improvement in her eousin’s mental health, and, thinking she might safely renew the subject of their first conversation, she with cautious words led him to the desired point. “I have been wanting to tell you about it,” he said, without hesitation. “I remem ber I went to the cliffs that morning to meet Magnolia; do you know who Magno lia is ?” Emily said “yes,” and lie went on: “I went to meet her, and, instead of meet ing her. I saw my friend Howard lying on the sands with a poignard in his breast I ran to the stone where Magnolia always left her notes for me; I found one, and round it was wrapped a long silver chain, that I had given her. I went back to Howard, and drew the dagger from his bosom; it was one I had seen in Magno lia’s possession; I remember no more until I found myself on the scaffold, and saw the rope; that was but for a few min utes, and my next recolletion is of this room.” “May I ask, what was in the note?” asked Emily, who had been listening with breathless interest while Ormand was speaking. “You may ask anything my kind cousin. I never read the note—l must have lost it.” “You may have hidden it,” said Emily, musingly; “have you ever thought of any one in connection with the murder?” “Not then, but I have since thought of one person—Magnolia !” “Rut, why do you think of her, Or mand? have you any reason for it?” “I can’t tell now, why I thought so, but I know I had good reasons. I think it was on account of a note she wrote me. I must have lost that one too.” “If wc could only find those notes,’ said Emily; “do you think you brought them home with you ?” “One of them I left in the house when I went to meet her that morning; the other one I remember nothing about, ex cept the silver chain—but I believe I brought it home with me.” “Doubtless you brought it home with you, and, very likely, the dagger too. Uncle Hugh says the dagger has never been found. Cheer up, cousin, there is hope for you yet.” “Oh no!” he replied in a hopeless tone, “I am doomed to spend my life in this confinement. Did I dare to venture out I should be hunted like a dog; men would look upon me with scorn, and wo men would fly from me in terror. Do not tell me to hope, there is no hope for me, my sun has set in everlasting night, so fiir as this world is concerned.” “Oil, Ormand! dear cousin, don’t speak so, you are not guilty, and you will yet be happy.” “Alas, no! and even if a doubt could be thrown upon the supposed fact of my having committed a murder, and my life should be thereby spared, what better off would I be then than I am now ? Here I have your sympathy, my cousin, and what more would I have then,” he looked ear nestly at her, “you do pity me, do you not, and you can spare a thought from my handsome brothers for the unfortunate. Ormand.” “Oh!” she said, smiling through her tears, while a crimson Hush dyed her fair face, “I do more than pity you, my dear, dearest cousin;” and she laid her cheek upon his hand. The warm blood gushed to Ormand’s pale cheek, and, then receding, left it paler than before. “Can you then spare me a little love?” he asked quite calmly, after a short pause, “a little of that sweet sister love, that is lavished so freely on my brothers. I)o not fear that I will misunderstand you, sweet cousin, even this is more than I dare ex pect,” but, even while he spoke, he gazed longingly into her face. “Oh, but you do misunderstand me, dear Ormand,” exclaimed Emily, hiding her eyes on his shoulder. “Oh Emily, can it be true ? oh do not deceive me ; do you love me, tell me ? Is not this some sweet dream from which I must presently awake —speak to me my dear love, and tell me if I am not dream ing!” Emily nestled closer within his encir cling arms, and replied in a soft gentle voice: “Calm yourself, dear cousin, you are not dreaming; I do, indeed, love you, my whole heart is yours. “My darling, my love,” he murmured softly, pressing her warmly to his bosom,” “what do you see in an ugly old man like me to love?” “Ugly! Ormand you arc beautiful to me, do you know I have had your picture in my room for a long time, and how lovely it is; you are handsomer than any of your brothers, Ormand.” “Oh ! fie Emily, how can you say so, it is only the blindness of love, Emmie, you may be sure.” And then they sat in silence for a long time, clasping each others hands, and looking into each others eyes, as none but lovers ever do. “I am almost angry you love me, Emi ly,” said Ormand at length, with a deep sigh. “Sorry, Ormand, do you say you are sorry ?” “Yes dear, because I can never make you happy ; you forget who 1 aim” “I do not forget ” she answered, but you must not let gloomy thoughts intrude. Why we could go far away to some dis tant land, dear Ormand, and, there, in some quiet obscure home, lead a happy life. Rut we will do even better than that; trust me, I will yet see the coronet of an Earl grace this beautiful brow • but 1 must leave you, Ormaud, I have been here a long time; I will come back again if I can.” She moved towards the door. “Emily!” “What is it Ormand ?” “You have not kissed me yet; wont you do it now !” He held out his hand to her, while a rare and beautiful smile brightened his pale face. She turned and lied to his arms, their lips were press ed together in a loving kiss, and then releasing herself, Emily left the room, leaving behind her, as she did so, the first ray of real happiness that had visit ed the heart of the forlorn man for many weary years. Emily hastened to her room, and en deavored to think calmly over all that she had heard; and thus she spoke to herself: “Uncle Hugh says the witness saw the flashing of the dagger in the sunlight be fore Ormand struck his friend, and yet, Montague was then lying on the sands, and there was but one wound, on his body, as was proven when it was exam ined ; why was he lying on the ground if he had not received his death blow ? Evidently, the shining object which the man saw, was the silver chain wrapped around Magnolia’s note. Where could he have put that note ? he must have hidden it, for uncle says he had nothing in his hand when he first saw him; and yet, he surely brought it home, else it would have been found. I will go down stairs and tell unde all that Or mand has told me.” The Earl was still in his library, and willingly put aside his books to listen to her. “I believe you are right,” he said at last, when he had heard all that she wished to say; $“I believe you are right, and my boy is innocent after all. What could he have done with that note ?” “Is there any secret closet in his old room, or secret apartment in that little bookcase ?” x “Not that I know of, and certainly, if the note is there, it is in some secret drawer, for all the visible shelves and drawers were searched at the time.” “Wc will search it again,” said Emily, “and if necessary take it to pieces, but uncle, why have you kept this from Ar thur and Reginald ? lam sure Arthur’s joyous spirit would comfort Ormand very much, it he were allowed to visit him freely; tell them, or let me do it.” “No, no, child, not now ; if we can prove his innocence, they shall know it, and I can once more acknowledge Or mand as the heir to my coronet. Rut, come, I am anxious to look over that old bookcase, all the young people are on the lawn, under the oaks: Reginald is read ing to them, and we will not be disturbed for some time.” Emily willingly assented; and assisting her uncle to mount the stairs, they en tered the sitting room together. “You have Ormand’s picture here, Emily?” “Yes; I didn’t know whose it was—so beautiful. I brought it here to look at, his eyes are glorious, Uncle !” “You seem to admire him very much, my child “Ido Uncle!” “Yes, he is handsome ; but move your books, and let us to work.’ [to be continued.] Democratic Platform. Payment of the Public Debt Equal Taxation of Every Species of Property One Currency for the Government and the People—the Laborer , Ojf.ee-Holder, Pen sioner, Soldier, Producer, aud the Pond holder. [For tlie Banner of the South.] A Blessing. With soft steps and holy It tenderly stole, And entered, unbidden, My world-weary soul; Aud though it half murmured The sound of a prayer, I felt not the presence, Nor knew it was there. ’Twas born of a sorrow Deep down in my heart, I treasure it for thee, Wherever thou art; Through daylight and darkness 'Twill follow thee yet, And while it is near thee, Thou eanst not forget. I send it to greet thee, On pinions that shine, For angels will bear it Erom my heart to thine; The years lie before thee Through pleasant ways yet, God’s blessing be o’er thee, And do not forget. In dreams may it woo thee To visions beyond, And while they subdue thee, Thy thoughts must grow fond; The quick-smothered ember May glow for us yet, And while I remember, O do not forget. Fidelia. Thanksgiving Day, 1807. billon’sTrevenge, On the slope of a hill near the junc tion of two rivers, and shut in by pleas ant woods, lies the clean, well-to-do little town of Senlis. A Roman town, then in the time of the Oarloviugians a royal residence, and later, the seat of a Bishop ric, the Senlis of to-day has a little fallen from its high estate; but has wisely taken to business in place of departed Kings and Bishops. Quiet and well conducted as it is, the traveler who, tempted, say. by its quaint, ruined forti fications, should study the topography of Senlis, would find connected with one of its “places” a hideous story, strangely oat. of keeping with the ways and aspect of the place. At the close of 1789, Senlis, like all other French towns, was just beginning to feel the movement of the great revolu tion, gaining daily in power. At Paris, the Bastile had fallen, Foulon had been lauled to the “lanterne/* tie people had “conquered” their King, and the “baker, the baker’s wife, and the little apprentice” mad come back unwillingly to Paris, amid a crowd of bowling fish-women; eut in the provincial towns the new order of ideas was still compatible enough with loyalty, and the agitation of Paris reached Senlis as yet only in the form of patriotic manifestations and pompous eloquence. On the 13th of December, a Sunday, the town was all alive with the expectation of a great ceremony. A sort of militia had recently been enrolled; the colors were to be blessed in the cathe dral, every person of consequence had been invited to the ceremony, and every one else was determined to witness the procession, which was to include all the public bodies aud functionaries. This procession was to start from the Town Hall; a detachment of National Cavalry were to lead the van; then the corps of the Arquebuse aud the Bow, in their handsome uniforms, with drums and fifes in front; next a company of fusiliers, with the public functionaries; then the colors, with a guard of honor; closing with four companies of fusiliers and chasseurs. This little procession was to start at noon on a signal given by a mor tar, to which the Cathedral bells would answer. The weather was so uncertain, cold, and dark, that although the procession was mustered, aud everything was ready for a start, a little delay took place while the respective advantages of two different routes were discus*ed. One of these wound through narrow streets, the other road was straighter aud wider. At this juncture a little man, Billou by name, arrived on the scene; although evidently intending to be a spectator only, he was strangely anxious about the route to be followed. “Why, Billon, how’s this ?” said M. Ilamelin, one of the principal personages; “you ought to be in uniform, and in a company.” “You know how they treated me at the Arquebuse,” said Billon ; “after the insult put upon me, I could take no part in all this. But what post do you occupy ? ” “Why, you know, my place is pretty well everywhere—front, rear.” “Trust me,” said Billon; “keep in the rear, it will be best for you. But what’s this about the road you’re, going to take ? It would be a shame not to go by the wide streets where everybody ex pects you.” “So 1 think, Billon; but I'm not master. Come, come, run home, and dress yourself; don’t be churlish on such a day.” Billon, however, taking his leave of M. Ilamelin, only went off to other offi cers, to whom he also recommended the wide streets. Just then, as noon struck, an express brought the order to g 0 by thc Rue du Chatel, as Billon had so urgently advised; the uews*flew round, and Billon hearing it, withdrew after a last and long look at the men of the Arquebuse. Rieul-Michel Billon was a clockmaker, living at an angle iormed by the streets Du Chatel and De la Tonnellerie. A staid, reserved man, lie could hardly, in his warm recommendations of a par. ticular route, be influenced by the wish to see the proescsion. To get at Ids motive we must look at his past history, a little, thin, sallow man, marked with the small-pox, with hair of an undecided color, such was Billon; his luee some what sad and stern, was now aud then kindled by the flashes of a pair of bril liant eyes. Neat and almost elegant in dress, of excellent manners, of agreeable and even of witty conversation, he wag well known, and a general favorite at the Case of Gagneux, the principal one in the town. Some few were annoyed by the persistence, almost angry at times, with which he advanced his opinions: still Billon never quite forgot his polished manners, and his enemies were few. TnetO' said that, polite as he was abroad, he was a domestic tyrant, ill-treating lib wife, a poor, good, mild, insignificant crea ture. A great friend of Billon’s wa.s Desroques, a printer, who, when in the course of 1788, the watchmaker’s hab itual melancholly increased, did all he could to enliven him. W ith this view, he, after much persuasion, got BillorU consent to have his name put up as a candidate for the honor of being admitted to the select Company of the Arquebuse, Billon was an excellent marksman, and that, together with the recomnjendatio.u of his friend, secured his admission to the company. But the melancholy, shaken olf fora time, returned with greater force than ever, and was increased by the occur ences of the year 1789. The watch maker had lent a sum of money at an interest of ten per cent. By so doing, he laid himself open to a charge of usury, which was made by his dishonest debtor. To lose his interest, and to be branded as a usurer, was too much for Bulon, who told his friend Desroques that this was the final Ldow, that he would not survive the sentence.’ Time might have brought relief to hie diseased mind, us his friends in no way lost their esteem of him ; hut the commander of the Aiqu ■ buse, a proud, harsh man, convoked a meeting of the company, at which the expulsion of Billon was voted secretly This decision, acted on in a brutal man ner, 0 filled up the measure of Billon'? wrongs against society. For some day he did not stir from home, where, how cvery he was seen at work as usual, and he appeared to lose gradually the sense of his injuries. But although lie dropped in at the Case as before, and resumed lib old habits, Billon was revolving schern - of vengeance. At one time he thought he would kill the commander of the Ar quebuse, but he was only one, and Bil lon’s vengeance demanded more victims. The revolutionary excitement promis ed to bring Billon his earnestly-desired opportunity, militia corps, and political olubs were instituted, and to them flocke citizens of all grades, whom social jea lousies had hitherto kept apart; even Billon, called into the ranks of the Nation al Guard, found that he was no long* r shunned by those who had taken the se verest view of his scrape. But the vindic tive watchmaker was not disarmed there by. In the month of July, 1789, bemad the first of several mysterious expedition to Paris, returning with chests of merchan dise, which lie kept carefully in his own bedroom, to be unpacked by him al m without witnesses. His wife saw with astonishment the arrival at the house ot a quantity of stout beams, the destina tion of which was quite unknown to her A carpenter was brought in, and workeu under Billon’s direction at fixing p u '*' and crossbeams in the room, from whieh Madame Billon was carefully exclu led. - 1 her questions Billou was mute, an.-wen - at most by a malicious smile; one day. h ever, alter seeing him furbishing arranging a number of guns, she venn* 1 to make inquiry again. “France wid ■’ invaded,” replied Billon ; “it is the E . of every good citizen to be ready. J now, mind your household affairs. • leave the rest to me,” pushiug hei y the shoulder from his room. went on with his preparations, = down doors, which be fitted with E lu “j through which the end ot a gun , ! * could be passed. The iloor of the t _ was taken up, and between the_b“ l ■ Billon firmly fixed a large chest ot p der, on which he then placed an mense weight. He spent near } months in these preparations, widen w<-*