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V T?r ROVVEKS CO'J ECT« J. H.&W.B. SEALS } ATLANTA, LI A., HEPTf^BEK J, 1SSO. rifiK si nmr. in tom o*uken. I stood uj*nn a lofty peak, The highest of the Willseot range : The autumn breezes seemed to speak In whispers softly sad and strange; Enchantment held my soul in thrall. And there I seemed above the world, With all its beauties, great and small Tnto my eager eyes unfurled, An early frost had clad the trees In scarlet tint and golden hues; The mellow sunlight on the leas Had wrought in sheen the morning dews. The fleecy cloudlets in the sky Were floating calmly o’er the scene And easting shadows green and wry Upon the fields so lately green. Upon the plain, in view below, On which the town of Murphy stands. Where heroes died—though years ago— And left no “foot prints in the sands/’ No monuments their deeds proclaim, Hut in the mist-clouds rising slow, My fancy saw tln-m chase the game With fateful lance and bended bow. My fancy saw their foes appear With burnish armor on the plain : J heard the dusky warrior cheer. And rush upon the sons of Spain. The cloud arose and passed away. But those who f -tight so brave and well Are sleeping now in grim art ay Near by the river where they fe’l. Gaixk*vim.!-:. A tig. H2, !»<). FLORENCE DUVAL; THE GARNET RING. By Viola l»r i l l u <•<><!. In the year 18—mv husband and my sen with two children moved from the South to a pleasant little town in the State of Illinois, where we spent many happy hours, until I became a widow. Then, being sad, lonely, and so far from relatives, I determined to return to my native home; although, I hail made many friends in this \\ estern State and had a large music school. On the eve of my departure, one and all my pupils gave me tokens of remembrance of different kinds. One in particular, Mas ter Edwin Earl, a bright, handsome boy, lifteen years of age begged me to accept a heavy gold ring. It was the last thing hand ed me, as 1 stood on the platform of the depot, bidding my friends farewell. “Here, my dear teacher,” said Edwin, “take this, and keep it until you see me again.” . , , 1 accepted the beautiful gift and asked what 1 should give in return. “There,” said he, pointing to a quaintly carved ring with a garnet set, that 1 wore on my first finger, “let me wear this until we meet again. You know you have promised to give me your little girl, and 1 shall claim her as soon as we are old enough to marry.” “That ring has a sad history connected with it,” I replied. “Oh never mind the history, Edwin an swered, “I'll return it some day.” The whistle bl w, and 1 hastily drew- the ring from my linger and gave it to him— which 1 deeply regretted afterwards—and bidding all a hasty adieu, 1 began my jour ney back to the sunny South. Hut my ob ject is to relate the history of the ring and not my own. l,i tt certain city, m the State of South Carolina, there was a large military school, of which my brother Kutlivin Kingston was a cadet. Being of tine personal appearance and gifted with a bright, intellectual mind, and possessing the rare quality of pleasing .,11 vOiom he cared to win, he soon succeeded in gaining the respect and love of all his teachers and fellow students. His lady ac quaintances were very limited, owing to the tact that he could only occasionally get away from the Citadel. Hut. one Sunday after noon while Kutlivin and Harry Watson, his room-mate, were strolling about the city they came to a Roman Chutholic Church and concluded to attend vespers. There, Ruth- vin saw a lovely girl with blue eyes and golden hair, kneeling at her devotions; and he looked, cupid pierced his heart w ith one of his sharpest arrows. Quietly he sat; hearing the service but the only desire in his i ou t of my sight heart was to know more of the blue eyed beauty who had made him forget till else. At length the services were over and as he and and his friend left the church, he said ; “Hurry did you notice the young lady who sat to our right just two seats in front, w ith a white cloak, and hat with blue trim mings!” , . „ “Yes indeed, she is a cousin of mine, Miss ^Tjs'it possible.' I am delighted to hear it. She lias the most angelic face I ever saw or dreamed of; she is my ideal and 1 have met mV fate. ’ -iir “Why, Ruthvin,” said Harry, believe you are in earnest, she has so deeply touched your heart at first Slt “Yes Hal I am in earnest; ns I looked at her she crept into my heart like a little sun beam and 1 feel that if I can win her love my life shall be flooded with sunshine ■■•v.ithi.nr could make me happier than to Ruthvin, but her motner ee berTiroiled alive before she would Terms in Advance: i siWiVcopy, 5*. / One Year. 82.50. NO. 2<>7 religious opinions, fathe told me that, you believed he w«is in heaven w Then, Mother, dear Mother, remembering \VeII, Florence, where are you ‘ this can you find it in your heart to blame me?” “Nonsense! miss, nonsense!*’ spoke Father O'Brien, “do you not know that your first duty is to Mod, and that you risk your own and your oftVpiiug’s salvation by marrying a heretic. Florence,” he continued, ‘ come here my feet and kneel and beg the blessed leave i Virgin t<» aid you in overcoming your infat uation for this man. Leave her to me, madam, leave her to me. She must never see the man again.” , . . . , . . , . , NIrs. Pent on went out without a word and ! Hopes glided beam straying into her heat closed the door after her. land she murmured, “Ruthvin may get my “Child, 1 bade? you kneel.” said tile priest, 1 ” l,v r betV.re it is too late.” Night hr''light •Mo you heed it not;” I no repose to the weary restless mind— balmy “I hear you, father, but 1 cannot kneel, I | sleep deserted her. am not in a proper state of mind to pray.” i j[ e _ qke the world his realty visit pays. He said no more but walked quietly out of ' where fortune smiles; the wretched tie forsakes: the room and locked her ip, then spending j Swift on his downy pinion flies from woe, an hour in private conversation with Mrs. ; And kehts on lids unsullied by a tear. Penton he left the house. | Morning came, and with it rain, thunder When Mrs. Penton unlocked the door of j nfl( ; lighting. Florence paced her room in the room iii which Florence was confined she | s ji e , i( e. ; I10 w and then going to the win lews found her very calm, sitting by an open win-i g., ze oll t j,, the direction of the Citadel dow, looking out. Not a word was spoken ■■■• ‘1 really Can it be that spread her face, for his eyes were betraying his heart. “I assure you, dear cousin, I am more than pleased to meet you and Miss Ella. Allow me, Miss Duval and Miss Summers, to intro duce my chum, Mr. Kingston,” Harry then continued: straying!” “We have no particular destination in view. Ella was suffering from depression of spirits anil 1 am making her try the sea- 1 ireeze. ” “Well," suggested Harry, “suppose we ex change partners: let me have Miss Ella, and while I am trying to cheer her, I will you to my friend, Mr. Kingston:*you will find him an entertaining companion.” “I will consider it a great favor, Miss Du val.” said Mr. Kingston, stepping forward. Florence gave a smiling acquiescence. She knew that Harry and Ella, who were be trothed. wished to be together, and had very few opportunities of enjoying each others society. Therefore the exchange was made, and the four began to promenadetliebattery. During the walk the warm lire of Ruthvin s love kindled a reciprocal tlame in the heart of Florence : and when the time came to sep arate, she felt that her life would have no joy unless she could always be near him Ruthvin gained access to Miss Duval's home as Harry’s friend, and the love which was so quickly born, lived and matured, and though their interviews were few, each knew the others Heart. Finally one summer after noon, Ruthvin took Florence in his arms and told her of his love. “My darling,” he said, “I did not intend to tell you of this love so soon, but I cannot repress this surging tide of emotion! 1 must give utterance to my feelings. 1 can no longer keep them pent up in my own heart. Say that you love me, and that "though all the powers of earth com bine to prevent it, you will be my wife.” And Florence, yielding to his embrace, gave the solemn promise. He sealed it with a kiss, and taking from his finger a beautiful ring, placed it upon hers. “Eet this,’ saul he, “be a token of betrothal. ” Mrs. Penton, the mother of Florence Du val, never dreamed of a love affair until too late. When it came to her knowledge she was greatly incensed. “What!” said she, “Florence, do you think 1 would permit you to lose your own soul by marrying a heretic! ' ' ' " to your room and say your rosary; then go to Father O’Krian and confess this sin you meditate commit ting.” “O, mother! do excuse me from the task, and tell me what you can say against Ruth vin! He is noble, true and as good as any Catholic.” “Girl! girl! you are not competent to judge in this matter. How dare you set your opin ion against mine; Go from my sight, until you can submit to my judgment!” And making the sign of the cross, Mrs. Penton left the room. Rut these harsh words did not check the love in Florence’s devoted bosom; the flower which Ruthven bad planted in that heart and cherished so tenileriy, had budded and bloomed. As well tell the rose to fold its lovely petals and withdraw again into the calyx as bid that heart cease loving. The flower hail bloomed and only death could wither the leaves and steal its sweet perfume away. Mr. Kingston was forbidden to visit Mrs. Penton’s house, but the lovers had many clandestine meetings and their affections grew stronger with each interview. Florence promised that leaving all others she would lie his as soon as he had finished college; and with this anticipated joy they tried to content themselves. But, alas! their secret was discovered and Mrs. Penton in formed of their intention. Florence was immediately summoned to A Sonilii-■*ll i*i:tii(:i(ioEl Stem* ‘Mother, I have promised to ’oiii's Caliin. to marry Mr. j “Mother, I have tried to be d itiful, always. ! oblige me bv not coming Kingston; you only object on account of his i In this one instance only i ask to act as my ; .jrieveil indeed i blame igious opinions. Tell me. was not my ] own heart dictates. If you could bring for- | Unhappy sbit her a protestant; and have you not often J ward one argument that would prove Ruth- Harry's bn; unworthy of mv love, I would com to your wishes. You have married again, and to please yonr hu-batul, have changed ymir religion. Ruthvin does not require this of me, then why object so seriously ?” Florence, be quiet; I see it is useless to parley thissubj ct with you. To the Con vent you shall go and there remain until you learn to be docile and obedient.” With these words Mrs. Penton left the room. Poor Florence, mis. ruble and wretched, with dark clouds of dispair gathering about her, stood for some moments with clasped hands as her mother left her; then came let'in'! 'marry a Protestant. Her mother isa convi . to Catholicism and obstinately and blindly attached to her creed But as he saw RuU.vin’s brow oegin to cloud, ne\ei mind old fellow I’ll manage it tor you. Florence is not asbigotteil as her mother “Thanks. Harry. I shall lie grateful for y TheTollawing Sunday-afternoon Ruthvin and Harry wandered down on t j appear before her mother and Father O’Brien and there unexpectedly met I' o , caIIed upo|) to cou f eS s her error. Atfirst ami her friend, Miss Ella Si mm t< , ars filleil her l„ v ing, truthful eyes, but re- “(), Cousin Harry! ! ’ al 'L* 1 ° r . ’ vou membering Ruthven s charge to be strong delighted to meet you. w here and f a j t hful through all tests, she raised her been hiding yourself - l,ut ^ m , ove r- eves to Imr mother’s face anil quietly though vin she hesitated, and a deep biu.su over g" rnll y ; for some seconds, then Mrs. l’enton said “Florence Duval, do you inte.nl to marry j Mr. Kingston against your mother's will— against the advice of the holy father and the : Church!” “I have promised him mother, I shall trv j to keep the promise.” “Enough! go to your room: don’t leave it until I give you permission. For three days you can meditate upon this subject and if at the end of that time you do not come to a different decision you will leave that room for a convent.'’ Florence walked out of her mother's pres ence ami up to her own room. There she threw herself on her knees and implored strength and direction from the great Being who sees and pities each suffering heart. The hours wore on, and still Florence sat in perplexity. Plan after plan was laid, but with each a new difficulty arose. “Oh, what shall l do! Ruthvin is forbid den the house, Harry is looked upon as an accomplice and he, too, is refused admittance ami I’m a prisoner.” Then going to her canary bird’s cage, she continued: “You dear little birdie, are you trying to comfort me with those joyous notes! Ah! how I love you; first because Ruthvin gave you to me, then for your own little sake. 1 wish you could talk that I might send you to him to ask his advice. I shall die if they put me into a convent, and if 1 do, little birdie, you must go up to Ruthvin and sing your sweet est to cheer his lonely heart, for I know he j When Florence entered the breakfast room, will miss me.” , hi r step-father, who was sitting at the table For only a few moments she gave way to 0 ^ e abruptly and aeknow lodging her pres- these sad reflections, then her true, brave | em , e only with a look of indignation left the spirit asserted itself. Taking her writing room . Though well aware that she was no desk she penned along letter to Ruthvin favorite of Mr. Penton’s, this open display of and when her tea was brought to her room ! dj s |i|,-e pained Florence deeply; but too proud and she knew the other members of the fain- 1 p, a p)i<>ar to notice it, she seated herself at ily were engaged at the same meal, she don- the table and partook of the breakfast spar-, lied a hooded cloak and drawing it closely ingly and in silence. over her features, she slipped on her rubber ghe was in the act of quitting the room shoes, crept noislesslv down the stairs, made R Walton entered. He appeared so her way through the back yard, out at the c t, p( ,,.f u i and happy, she thought, “Ruthvin gate and quickly to the post-office, dropped p j not received her letter,” for in it she had ill her letter, hurried to the lonely cemetery message to Harry where she knelt fora few moments by the sent a message u. narry ^ headstone of her father’s grave and asked for “M ell, little comm, said he, hastening to heavenly guidance in her distress, her side. I came down town on business,but | as the flood-gates seem opened again and [SEE ENGRAVING ON “ll PAGE] and was back in her room only five minutes when Mrs. Penton entered. “Florence, my child,” she liegan. “I am deeply grieved to know you are so willful.” Florence’s heart began to double its pulsa tions. She was sure her absence from the house had been discovered. But she grew calmer as Mrs. Penton continued, “Do be your former self; it will pain me to see you go to the Convent—though go there you shall, sooner than wed witli one outside of the true church.” here. I am deeply you for the present ite of affairs.” f flushed with indignant pride for a moment, but. remembering his errand ■ he pleasantly replied; j “Pshaw, auntie! you make too much of the ' subject. Why you would talk the young i foius into it, if they had no idea of such a | tiling." Turning to Florence, he added: i “Come, cousin, and play me some cheerful i music to dispel the gloom of this dreary weather,” and taking her hand led her into the parlor. I “Courage, dear,” he whispered. “I have I good news for you. Seat yourself at the piano i and while you are playing I will tell you what brought me here. Ruthvin received ' your letter, but fearing on your account to trust a letter, he sent me with this note, ' which you can read after Fm gone, and a re- i quest wh ich he urged me to beg you to grant. Play on, but 1 is'en attentively.” “He says,” continued Harry, “that there is but one course left by which you can save j yourself from a convent life and that by fol- ! lowing it you will make him supremely i happy.” j Florence’s heart beat fast and the nervous fingers on the piano keys made many false notes and betrayed her emotion. Already ; she guessed what Ruthven wished. ( “He knows,” continued Harry, “how much ; you are opposed to elopements, but begs you j to consider your own happiness as well as his and to give him the right to protect you i and nothing on earth shall separate you from him. He is very unhappy and sineere- ! ly regrets that he cannot see you and make | this request in person. I love him, Florence, and cannot bear to see the noble fellow so j wretched.” 't he music suddenly ceased anil Florence | pressed her hands over her eves to keep the ! tears from flowing. "Oh, Harry! don't tell j me that 1 have brought so much bitterness I into hislife!” “No, Florence, I did not mean that; only that you could make his life so different if you would.” Anil seeing the advantage he j had gained, Harry went on, “Ituchven will | beat the side gate to-night at twelve o'clock ; with a carriage and Ella will be with him. Ruthven's aunt, who is very kind and ilevot- j ed to him,insists upon having you brought to | her house, where l be marriage ceremony will 1 take place. Every arrangement has been j made. Surely you will not disappoint him.” ! “Oh, cousin Harry! it is tempting, but I ! hate to begin a new life by an actofdis- S obedience.” | “In this instance you are excusable. Do i you suppose a parent is justified in the sight i ot God, who takes a young life like yours | and crushes its spirit by enclosing it in con vent walls ” j “Hush, Harr}-.’ 1 only knowtliat mamma's ; kindness is all gone, and that no person seems ! to love me as Ruthven does. Yes; tell him . I will meet him to-night.” | “God bless you, dear. I will hasten back ] with your answer, for 1 know he is impa tiently waiting. Bye-bye. Beware of your stepfather. “I will certainly be cautious. Harry,” and giving him both hands, she said, “Good-by. You are so good I cannot thank you enough. Tell Ruthven to do so for me.” The front door closed after Harry, and Florence was hastening to her room to pe ruse the note Ruthven had sent her when she heard her mother’s voice calling her into her w . room. She obeyed without hesitation though threatening a second deluge, I concluded to her heart was "hungry for the loving words softly. “Oh, Ruthvin ilo come before it is too late !” Outside, the rain beats against tlie window panes, and the trees bend to and fro in the i wild wind, their low moans arid sighs seein- i ing to the poor girl like the echo of her own j agony. Her meditations are interrupted by I a knock at the door, and to her gentle—“come I in;” a servant enters with a command, from Mrs. Penton, that, “Miss Florence will please come to her breakfast,” and is hurrying out of the room, when Florence calls, “Meg, Meg, stop I want ’ to see you.” “Course I’ll stop if you want me Miss Flor ence. But Missus told me not to stay a minute.” “Meg, I’m very much in need of assistance; I are you my friend ;” “Law, yes child ! 1 is: dat 1 is, ’cause if I isn’t roar’s Judy would k:ll me.” “\ t ry vv cll Meg. I 11 t-list. you. 1 expect a i letter to-day; it will be thrown over the gar- ; den fence near tlie Palmetto tree. Will 'you watch for it, and bring it to me ! “Yi s miss, jes so, Fse gwine to do that.” j Then, Meg, i will give you this silv r mon ey and a nice head-kerchief.” “Daw Miss ! I can’t take de sillier money, ’cause my old miss ’ell say, Meg where you git em' . and when I tell her Miss Florence give ein t<> me she’ll crack my head. No, no, but 1 fetch the letter honey—but law Miss Florence ! come to de table.” take refuge in this ark of safety awhile.” “Come. Harry,” said Mrs. l'enton, “I’m displeased with you, and—” Oh, stop, auntie! I know I’m forbidden to cotne here, but you would not have a fellow creature stay out doors such a day as this I know,” and he hummed with a saucy good humor: "lion’t be angry with me, dearest. Don't he angry with your boy.” “Don’t interrupt me, Harry,” continued Mrs. Penton. “After this morning, you will she knew the note contained. “Did your cousin,” began Mrs. Penton, “advise you to follow my advice or persist in this folly !” This question took Florence quite unawares. Her truthful nature revolted at falsehood and for tt few seconds she remained silent and unable to reply; then bursting into tears sbe said: “Mother, do with me as you will, hut all you, cousin Harry, Father O'Brien, or any one else may say, cannot alter my affection for Ruthven Kingston. I have pledged him my heart while life lasts. I have not the power to take it from him even if I wished," “Then, miss, you can go to the convent to morrow.” “O mother! ilo not say that. I know the nuns are pure, noble women, and are satis fied with their lot because they have chosen it, but I could never be. I should die. moth er, I’m sure I would. Think of dear father! He was a protestant. And, though I w as only eight years old when he died, I can never forget that last illness. Don’t you re member, mother, that when he was dying he called you to him and said: ‘Mv faithful wife, take care of our little daughter, train her to serve our God—teach her the road to Heaven. There 1 shall await you both.’ Oh, let the remembrance of that hour move you to be more lenient towards me in this matter!” Mrs. Penton’s heart was touched: her eves suffused with tears: and a better understand ing might have taken place between mother and ehiltl had Mr, Penton not entered at this moment. “What! crying again!” he asked. “What is to become of this house!” Florence quiet ly left the room. Mr. Penton continued: "That willful girl will ruin us all. Bhe has kept this house in a turmoil quite long enough and I do not intend to submit to it any longer. 1 hoped, Mrs. Penton, you would have had stability sufficient to come to some decision, but as you have not, I will do so for you.” “Don’t be severe, my husband. Florence is not at all well. Each day 1 grow more confirmed in the fear that she has iuherited consumption from her father.” “ W -11 she had better die than marry Kingston, for his only object is to get her money?” He became Ruthven’s judge, but did not confess his own selfish motives that prompted him to oppose tlie marriage so strenuously. “I cannot believe she would marry with out my consent,” said Mrs. Penton. “Nonsense!” replied Mr. Penton, “1 tell you Kingston is determined to get her if he can, and the only way to prevent it is to send her immediately to the convent. And as I’m obliged to settle the matter, she shall go to-morrow.” And without watting for a reply he w alked out of the room, slammed the door after him and left the house. Left alone, Mrs. Fenton turned to go into rnassa cornin’, den when te’git on"He'iiigfi nb-s 1 be right still, like a mouse, till he iebe. Missus, he gwine for to kill Miss Florence if he shut her up in that big house ober dere. Please send her to her aunt in the country, and let me go wid her, “There, there, Meg, you must not presume to make suggestions. I will see what can be done. Go now, but don’t mention this mat ter to your young mistress.” “No ma’am, missis, I ain’t gwine to.” However, Meg lost no time in getting to Florence’s room with the intention of telling her all she had heard. “Miss Florence,” she began, “I got good news for you. Missus gwine to send you off to de country to morrow and Fs gwine too. 1 heard Massa talking ’bout yer money and de propity, but thank the Lord, I neber b’long to him, I ain’t. ’ “Never mind, Meg, I know all—” “Law! do you honey! den you heard dem too i” Meg had been humored and spoilt by her owners, when quite a child, and now that she was older had, frequently, to be remind ed of her place. “There Meg, you have talked enough,” said Florence, “you may go now. I wish to be alone. If you hear my bell, cotne, I’m not feeling well.” Mi g left the room: saying to herself as she went down stairs: “Well, Miss Florence do look sick like. I speck dey’ll worry her to def—poor homy! Florence spent the rest of the day strug gling with tlie conflicting emotions of her heart. At times—when she remembered her mothers kindness in the past—and the grief she would feel when she knew her daughter was gone she was on the verge of disappointing Ruth win. Then, into her heart crept the memory of his low, loving tones, anil in her hand she clasped the note he had sent that morning, in which, he implored her with all the tire and eloquence of an Apollo, to come to him. All day long she fought the battle of love and duty. At length love triumphed, but the effect of the struggle was plainly seen in her face. Tlie girlish, cheerfulness was gone, and in its place was a look of wo- niai I v dignity and decision. So discernible was this change, that Mrs. Penton was struck with astonishment when Florence en tered the supper-room that evening, and her mothers heart longed to utter some loving words, hut her husband was in the room and she knew he would accuse her of weakness if she showed ant' signs of relenting. The meal passed in silence and when I lor ence rose to leave the room she went over to Mrs. Penton and said; “Please kiss me good-night, mother. Mrs. Penton looked at her husband as if for permission, then kissed the rosy lips bend ing over her and said: “I am afraid you are not well, daughter. Florence dared not trust herself to reply, but hastened to her room where, no longer in danger of betraving herself, she gave way to a flood of tears. But the night was ad vancing and much was to be done, therefore nerving herself to the task she wrote a fare well letter to her mother. It was not long, but the blinding teardrops made her long in completing it and stained its pages in many places When sealed, she laid it upon the centre’table and began dressing for the flight. Down stairs Mr. and Mrs. Penton talked I long and earnestly about Florence. Mr. Penton urging the necessity of sending iter immediately to a convent to prevent an elope- ! ment, and the mother proposing a visit to an j aunt who had a delightful residence a few miles in ttie country. But Mr. l’enton over ruled his wife’s opinions, and it was decided to send her to the convent on the next day. [Concluded next week.] In Egypt, the ulema, who are at the head of religion, are extremely fond of the haunches, legs, shoulders and ribs of the hy ena. w hich Franks, (as Europeans are usually called) hold to be unclean. The idea is that hyena flesh imparts strength, especially mas culine strength. Has a rich Egyptian a pain in the back—he takes a siesta on a hyena’s skin, and firmly believes that his pain must vanish.