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VOL. V. J. H. & W R SEALS,) ggggg&Z ATLANTA GA., SEPTEMBER 20th, 1879. Terms ia advance:-; Sfitg-e^-SS No. 219. I f ) GEX. HOOD'S ORPHAlfN. BT KELLI HEHBKRT. TEMr y° u 8 lve them a stone?” D.< D/-vw 1.bat human hands By neV. I brave, A SPECIAL ., -elr orphan children “bread,” xi ue. Kan raise a "stone” above their head. And when a dying hero, full of trust, His orphan children doth bequeath To the brave men who, in the beat and dust Of battle, bravely fought beneath That hero's gallant leadership and eye, Who can be deaf to his dear children’s cry ? Build, then, O people of the Sunny South, A monument that shall endure; Put "bread” Into each hungry orphan's mouth, And make their future oomfort sure, For If In poverty and toll they groan, How vain to Hood a monument of “stone.” Atlanta, Ga., Sept., 8,1870. DIES IRJE. OR Under the Stars and Bars. BT CELESTE 1ILTCHIS8 BARKSDALE. CHAPTER Vlir. “ ‘They rest,’ ’their sleep is sweet.’ ” In Memoriam. October. The end has come, and we lay our mother beside onr father; looking into each other's eyes for the oomfort we do not find. In the calm Ootober morning we bury her; no sound save the heavy olods as they fall upon the ooffin breaks the etillnees of the solemn quietude. Onr hearts nnit» in grief. ■*+— , ^ A The brightness ot the sunlight, the parti-ool- ored leaves that make the trees gorgeous in their Autumn dress, the withering buds, the late blooming flowers mook our wretchedness. With one last look at the plaoid face, one last kiss on the oold, mute lips, a few passionate words of farewell, we turn away. Our mother is dead, November. •Helen, you and Barbara help us rip up the carpets,—all but the one in mother’s room,— we must send them to the soldiers,’ Eve says; she and Lila standing before me, soissors and needles in band, ready for the task. It may be Eve’s black dress contrasting with her face that makes her look so white. She is thin, and so unlike the Eve of former days. Vaiarie enters with an open letter. She looks down at onr warm oarpets as she says: •It is terrible bow those poor fellows will suf fer during the winter.’ •Yes,’ Barbara says, thinking no doubt of her lover. ■The oarpet must go,' Eve declares, earnestly. •Will you give your consent, Miss Helen?’ asks Lila. •Yes we can do without the carpets,’ said Bar bara, who is fast conquering her luxurious habits. So we proceed to work; thinking of those two who have always direoted and enoouraged us heretofore. 1 recall mother's loving messages to John as I sew on the blankets intended for bis men. At night we gather in our oarpetless rooms, talking hopi fully of a better day. Etlie is our obief comforter. But for her merry little faoe and innooant prattle we would succumb to diapair. If we look sad or careworn she comes to us. ■Dod is dood, auDtie; He said he'd tomfort you.* Muoh of it she learned from mother while she was ill. Deoember. ’Over year a since I have seen John,” Vaiarie says, folding her pretty, hands in her lap and looking at me wistfully.* ‘He will soon come, dear,’ I reply, oheerfully, soarce believing my words however. ■Helen, I want him bo mnohl’ she cries, misty shadows coming into her eyes. That cry goes to my heart, I draw her to me encircle her with my arms. Sympathy and love are all that we have to give now. ■What is the matter? Can I be of any assis tance?’ Pen's cold voioe comes to me from the door way; abe glances at Vaiarie,a hard contemptuous look comes upon her faoe. We never speak to John and Vaiarie befor Penelope, she, herself, is very guarded about it; she never gives away to useless lamentations Vaiarie, believing Pen a second Beatrice, who would muoh rather her dog ‘bark at a crow than a man swear he loves* her, is mute before the eyes scrutinizing her so closely. ‘We were speaking of the war, Pen,’ I reply evasively, considering it my duty to help Pen keep her secret, and to prevent her dislike of Vaiarie from becoming apparent. The girl has striven nobly against this feel ing, hut it will not be overoome. Something rises like an ice berg between them, and Vaiarie, instinctively conscious of it, rarely oppose* herself to Pen. ‘When is John coming,’ Pen asks abruptly. •I do not know, dear, I say, sighing. ‘I hope he will oome soon.’ Vaiarie says, eagerly, unmindful i ow of her usual reserve in speaking of John before Pen. ‘I oannot stand this much longer ; I shall die if he does not come !’ •I suppose you would prefer his being here to hold your skein ot silk, to defending his country. After all, selfishness is the predomi nant trait in every character. Vaiarie now thinks it only just that John should remain at The • ieg Mr. Hill to-morrow. I was reading loud, this morning, when she oame in he room, these words from Xonng — ‘Oh ! the tender ties, Hose twisted with the fibres ol the heart! Which broken, break them, and drain the Bonl. )f human joy, and make it pain to 11 ve— Ihe rushed out of the room, and I ieard her sobbing as I passed the half- loaed door of her room. Better ten honsand times, live alone than try to ili her heart * ■Who talks of hearts ?‘ asks Pen, oom- og in. “You, Eve? My dear friend, one day you wilt know just how little •eople‘8 hearts have to do with a great oany business transactional You know, oo, how many hearts are broken, yet till beat on and give ao«ign. The day drags through tho’ storms keep out the sun; Lnd thus the heart will break yet brokenly Uve on.” At night before I retire I creep to lve‘s and Pen's room. Eve sits up- lght in bed, tears streaming from her yes. ‘Listen, Helen !' pointing to Fen, rbo is asleep. ‘No escape ! no eeoape!' the girl mur- sure, piteously. ‘Oh, John, dear John!' I go baok to my room. All night the rinds sigh, the rain sobs: ‘no escape 1 o escape!' Christmas day dawns gloomily. The ay of all days has oome to ns again. It s the weddiDg day of Barbara, Vaiarie, ’enelope. There is an unwonted quiet- iobs about every one. Oar bereavement ias been too reoent to permit ns to sake merry over what iB after all a oom- aon occurrence. Eve and I are bnsiest of them all; larbara is the most excited. Ten •clock, th6 appointed time for the oer- tnony, comes quickly on, but the Dimeter does not oome. He sends os Atlanta Passenger Depot on the arrival of the from the Ijcan Bridge in front pjt .word that he cannoy .'•me auiil evening. ’ ' IHE SUNNY SOUTH OFFICE. _ hoflre with her, while other sons, husbands and lovers fsce cannon and musket. Selfishness 1 it is the ourse of our land ; it sacrifices patri otism and honor on its altar.’ Vaiarie rises to her feet, saying ; ‘Penlope, I should think that you would be too generous to tauut any one with want of patriotism, when they have shown by words and deeds that their country was dearest of all ob jects. Your impetuous outburst is unkind and anwarantable. Can I stifle entirely the cravings of my heart ? Can I wholly pnt aside my love for John and my desire to see him? There is a rush of feet, and in five seconds I hear Penelope's nervous tread above me, as she paces her room. •What is the matter with her,’ Vaiarie asks, resuming her seat with a heightened oolor in uer cheeks. ‘She is the moat incomprehensible being I ever saw. Sometimes I think that John has ’ ‘Hush, Vvlarie ! Do not wrong John, and for my sake, do not refer to this again. We must not forget that this poor child has suffered ; has been tried terribly. Be as kind and for bearing to her as yon can. I must go to her now.’ ‘Helen, what on earth ails Pen’? asks Barbara, coming into the room. ‘She went flying past me just now, and her eyes quite frightened me.’ I give Vaiarie a warning look and leave the room. A bolted door bars my entrance. I bear passionate sobbing inside. 1 go ont on the verandah, gently raise the sash and Btep in. ■Pen, I say,’ bending over the little figure prone upon the bed. 'Darling, what is the mat ter ? tell me, my sister.' ‘Dont ! dont ! she gasps,’ quivering like a wind-shaken reed. ‘Dont oall me that.’ •Darling,’ gathering her in my arms, ‘yon must not think that Vaiarie .’ She springs from my arms, stands before me with burning cheeks and wet eyes, saying fieroely : Dont oall her name ! I hate her ! Would that I never I have wounded Penelope deeply. I put my I voioe from the parlor—‘yet if you wish, if you •P-nelope,’ I say, very sorrowfully, ‘you must | whisper. arms around har, entreat her to give up this mad scheme. Between my desire to do right a“d my inclination I struggle for a moment. Then I tell Penelope that she is nnder my oare and I can not permit her to entertain snoh a quixotic idea for a moment. A cry of rapture below stairs makes me panse a moment. Valarie's happy voice ories: ‘John! oh John!’ I release Pen, turning I see such passionate wistfulness in her eyes that I am loth to lease her until she motions me to go. As I eDter the parlor, Vaiarie half orying is dinging to John. Barbara, Eve and Lila looks on. Some one darkens the doorway, and Lila, rushes forward, orying: •Maurice!' I look on as a spectator until Barbara gives a little shriek, a mixture of glad surprise and bright joy as Charlie Rogers encircles her pump loim with his arms, J hn turns to me. His face pales and his eyes rush over with tears as he embraces me; and then draws me into the next room, and holding my hands, whispers‘mother‘ when we are calmer, I repeat her dying mes sage to him, and we mingle our tears. It is a sad, face that Vaiarie next looks on; for John loved his mother truly; but it does not dampen her delight. Sae feels, for the time being that he is hers, that his arms are about her, that his love is all hers. In my heart I re sent her happiness, her glad faoe in contrast with Penelopes Eilie comes in at this juncture, and it is amusing to see Mr. Rogers bestowing fatherly kisses and caresses upon her. J >hn and V larie withdraw to the bay window; Barbara an Charlie sit on a sofa; Lila and Msnrioe go into the hall. Eve, • 1 say taking the girl’s h^nd and looking into her wistful faoe, ‘Penelope says that she is gomb! north to her mother’s friends.’ •Do not let her go, Helen. It is madness; and I cannot near have her leave me.’ Sue does not folly believe in her brother's, dta h; she is going to hnnt for him. •Do jou think she will find him? 1 in a quick oomfort yonrseif. I oannot permit you to speak in this manner of Vaiarie, of the woman John is to marry.’ She shuddered as I said it. •It you do not oontrol yourself, every one will tsev ’ I cannot bring myself to wound her so deeply •Go on,’ she says curtly. •Vaiarie has been plaoed in my oare bv my brother. He will think u»rd of me if I allow Bert is dead, I know it as truly as though I had seeu him buried, but I only answer, God grant that she may 1’ Night oooiea on gloomily. I go up to Pen’s room. She is kneeling before a trunk that she : has been packing, bat rises as I come in. ‘What are you doing, Penelope?’ I ask, as I she comes to me. _ I ‘I wat wroug to speak to Vaiarie as I did this \on to rush in upon her witu vonr s^rc-.stic ‘morning Miss Helen,’she says, hurriedly, as if words.’ 1 fearing that she would break down before she ‘Yon art right, of coarse. I will not subject m»kts the conf- ssion. ‘When I am gone pray her longer to my temper.’ she sa>s eoiphati- ! ask her to forgive me; and you, will you not cally, every particle oi oolor leaving her face forget and forgive wh t I said to yon ?’ ‘The world is wide enough to put her ont ot my reach. Don’t oe afraid, Miss Helen I am not thinking of murdering Va'Htie, laaghing scornfully. ‘I am going awHy going to be rid of V»larie, who reminds me of J >hn ; tnie ri i of Eve, the sight of whose fac- brin-s Bert to •My poor darling,’ I cry, touched by the pleading face. ‘We oannot let you go— •H len ! Helen!’ calls John. ‘Bring Mias Pen dowa here I have something to tell her. Of Bert! of Bert! I know' she cries, her lace suddenly lighting. Oh, Miss Helen, I told me ; going to be rid of yen. who tmn (torn ■ you I cannot help hoping that he lives. me in my woe. Nay,' as I mane a yes nre of dissent. ‘I do not blame yon ; I am n >t one to be loved—only one to waste love not to gain it. I dteamed Lst night that I saw Bert peeping in at the wm low,’ coming oloser to me, "and 1 have thought all day that it would be best for me to ascertain the certainty of his death Mama had, and has friends in 'he North. I will go to them, and search every Yankee prison until Bert is found.’ I look at the girl in astonishment There comes to me as plainly hs though some one spoke to me the oonvereation 1 had with Mrs. Revere before her death. I bad promised to be a sister to th s girl. My heart is smitten with re morse. She looks up at me with eyes so like tbe that I forget Vaiarie,all,every one,save that dead I have no distinct remembrance of going down to John, but when I do Eve and Pen are standing before him while he tells them of a brother officer who was a fellow prisoner with Bert at Foit Dele ware, and who heard a report, bow reliable, he does not know, that he was liv ing, with a bare chance of recovery the day alter he was shot. ‘Will nothing I oan do win your heart? are words tnat reach my ear that night as I cross the ball. I glance in the direction from where they come and see Penelope and Manrioe Hill stand- ng on the verandah. She raises her dark face, and s-tys : ‘I have no heart to win—‘ There comes the sound of Valane’s happy think it worth your while, yon may try to find it—’ •Some day. John, I will be yonr wife, but not now.’ says Vaiarie. ‘But, my darling, why put me off indefinite ly ?' pleads John. •Yes, Mr. Hill, I will be your wife—when Vaiarie marries Major Ross.' ‘Why not now?' he asks, disappointedly. ‘Let me leave you as my wife;—then, if I fall, I will have the assurance that you will be cared for.’ ‘Not now, Mr. Hill,’ in a tone of weariness. ‘I am going North—to hunt Bert—’ I pass on, wondering how much John's and Valarie’s conversation has to do with Penelope s decision. When she comes to me an hour later she says : ‘Give me yonr congratulations, Miss Helen, for I am to marry Maurice Hill.’ Then sud denly breaking down as she meets my pitying eyes, she says passionately. 'They will marry and be happy, can I not marry and be misera ble if I ohoose ? After I am married I may learn to forget, learn to love the other; learn to be ha”py. No that can never be. ’ I am not surprised when Penelope oomes to me two days later and tells me that she has promised to beoome Maurice's wife on the mor row. Vaiarie is to marry John, Barbara Charlie. I am very grave, for I cannot see the girl want only sacrifice herself without pain. ‘It is best,’ she says, in reply to my entrea ties. ‘I oan make him a faithful wife if not a a loving one. He is a noble fellow, Miss Helen, and deserves to be loved heartily. If he is con tent with a heart full of ‘cinders, ashes, dust, why let him take it and welcome.’ Eve appeals to her, but in vain. I carefully question Lila. ‘Maurice has loved Penelope ever since he met her in RiohmoDd at the hospital,’ she replies. ‘I have always wished it, but have never dared to suggest snoh a thing.’ I talk to John about it. ‘Helen,’ he says, gravely, ‘if Maurice 'and Penelope are Baited I oan't see that you or I have anything to do with it Manrioe is all that a woman can reasonably wish or exp-ct, and will make Penelope a kind, devoted hus band. She is too true a woman to marry a man without loving him, as yon insinuated that she is about to do. I am very glad that it is so; and I am sure that Bert would approve her choice.’ •You do not know her as well as I do,’ ‘I re- tarn, sighing. And so they go on with their wedding pre- perations, while Eve and I undertake to get up a respectable dinner. Barbara is, of course, muoh exeroised about her dress. She was in monrning at the begin- ing of the war, and has no dress suitable for the occasion. After much deliberation she re novates a lilac silk that I wore when she was married to Mr. Crofton and whioh is almost new as it was on that day. Vaiarie selects a dark blue poplin that is very becoming to her fair beauty. Pen selects noth ing, does nothing but sit with folded hands or follow Eve or me about to avoid a tete-tete with Maurice or Lila. The latter does not appear to notice it, but Maurice does. He waylays the door of the din ing room, and seeks in every way to induce her to come ont to him. At night she sobs and moans in her sleep until I am determined to tell Maurice the whole truth, and seoure her the release that she longs lor. Vaiarie is so delighted that she congratulates Penelope at least a dozen times. It is hard for the girl to endure it calmly, but she does, and smiles and answers carelessly : but hei heart is breaking. Eve and I stand at the dining room fire; the girl comes oloser to me : ‘Helen, I fear Pan is not doing right in mar- respite.- The day drags on. John gives me directions about tbe plantation and negroes, and advice about sundry little matters. At last tbe minister comes, bnt it is so late in the evening that the lamps are lighted. We are all assembled in tbe parlor. As has been ar ranged, John goes to Vaiarie, takes her hand and leads her forward. Pen leans her head on my shoulder, her faoe as white as the dead’s, her eyes stare at the two standing up to be made man and wife. The solemn ceremony begins—but does not end! There is noise ont in the street, many voices laughing and talking, jingling of swords, neighing of horses. ‘Yankees, Mass John! Yankees!’ cries Seab, coming hurriedly into the parlor. ‘Hide Mass John! -more’n three hundred.’ •Proceed, sir,’ John says to the olergyman. That good man is too overwhelmed with the news, and knows too well that his wife and five little ones need him more than the Federate do, so he makes ‘discretion the better part of valor’ and ‘proceeds’ through a side window. ‘Fly, John!’ I cry urgently. ‘Remember Bert and the others. To the baok door. To the back door! Qniok! Go through the lot; down to the river near the creek. Go, go!’ as he stoops to kiss Valarie’s white lips. Barbara faints; Lila orouohes down in one corner; Vaiarie sobs softly; Eve snatches up El- lie; Pen looks relieved. I hear her say to her self, ‘Thank God this time for the Yankees!’ I hurry out and with Seab’s assistance secrete ev erything that will betray the presence of the Confederate soldiers about the house. I am hardly done when the order to surren der com 68. ‘We are a household of women, sir, I say to the men. ‘I look around as I speak, Pen has disappear ed. ‘We shall search the house,’ growls one. ‘Yon are welcome to do so, ‘ I retort. ‘And the premises.’ ‘Very well,’ I answer carelessly, my heart beating loudly enough to be heard aoross the room. ‘Where is Pen?’ Eve whispers. I shake my head. What mad scheme has en tered her head now? 'We were told that three Confederate soldiers were here, ‘ says one offioer. ‘Three Confederate officers were here, bnt they have gone,’ I answer. ‘What the denoe are all these women faintiDg and crying about?’ he asks, eyeing the girls sus piciously. No one answers, and we gather aronnd the fire. It is late before we leaye the parlor, even then Penelope does not join us. I am in an ag ony of suspense lest some of the servants betray John to our enemies. But they are tried and trne, and stand the test of questions and bribes. Slowly and sadly Barbara and Vaiarie put away their wedding finery. ‘I will never need it again, Helen,’ Vaiarie says with a burst of tears. ‘I shall never Bee John again, never, never!' ‘Yon said that onoe before, Vaiarie*’ I reply soothingly. ‘If they bad only waited a few minutes longer!’ she goes on, ‘only a few minutes so that I might have been his wife! Even that is denied me!' We each make our lamentation unto ears too full of their own doleful bewailing to heed us. Five days go by—still no news of John or Pe- neiope. There is a nameless fear in my heart, and yet, Penelope is purity itself, and John is the soul of honor. Maurice and Charlie were taken prisoners. We saw them for a moment, but they ooald give no tidings of John. A deep shadow has settled over Valarie's faoe. Continued on 6th Page. U6TINCT PRINT