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3 Entered according to act of Congress, In Use yesr ISM, by Stockton M Co., in the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the Southern District of Georgia. WRITTEN FOB THE SOUTHERN FIELD k FIRESIDE. herald tag’s life. BT THE AUTHOR OF “BUSY MOMENTS OF AN IDLfc WOMAN,” “ LILT,” “BYLYIA’S WORLD,” *O, AO., •Enough,’ cried Ruth; ‘you speak as a man. To* speak by the rules of your caste. Further words are useless; you do not under stand me; you do not comprehend that were he to begi* to lore me from this hour, 1 could never love him again. What did I love ? The truth, the honor, the nobleness of his character. I saw a shadow in the water and caught it to my heart of hearts. I loved what never had a substance within my reach*. I held intangi ble, unexisting air. I crowned myself with a breath of idle wind, am! fancied I was a qo on. Is there anything to love in that man ? I don't know what it is! He las blue eyes—but there are plenty of blue eyes in this world ; he is amusing—but any actor of a French theatre is more so; 'tis a bundle of r jgs on a scare-crow, at which for four years l »>nve looked with reverence. Your hand 5 ive ho Haunting de ceit a fillip, and lo I lam cored. ‘Yes, my hand I’ 1 wish it had been withered ere it performed so senseless an act.' ‘Why so ?’ asked Ruth, sinking into her chair, and speaking with a monstrous hard tone; ‘recollect what you eaid, sooner or later it would come. So desperate a passion could not be long concealed or controlled. A man could not live in the same atmosphere with such a syren without succumbing to her charms. True, he concealed it well. How he has spoken slightingly of poor Cissy to me! Francis, you see how weak I am—l am sneering at that in significant girl who has had the luck to blast my life. Listen to my request—don't draw me on to further folly. Farewell; you are—’ ‘Dearly attached to you, Ruth ; your warm and faithful friend.’ ‘lf I ever believe in anything agaiu, I will believe that.’ 'Believe it now, I entreat you, and give me one word, one token to carry to Gerald, that may guide him through this darkness.’ ' Ruth looked fixedly at him, partly opened her pale lips, closed them, turned away and walked to her writing table. Her back was to him. She placed her left hand before her. There was her wedding ring. Twice she turned to take it off and her courage faded —one wrench and it rolled upon the desk. With firm pen and steady fingers sbe wrote: r I wore this ting as a pledge orthe sworn love, bonor and faith of a gentleman; I return it to the giver knowing him now to be a liar, a trickster and a scoundrel. ’ It was Boon done, the ring enclosed, tho'en velOpe sealed. ‘Should be ever wish to explain himself, this will assure him of my reception,’ she said to Francis. He took it doubtfully. Like a brother he folded bis arm about her aud pressed a kiss upon her forehead with a murmured ‘God bless you and comfort you, my child!' A slight shiver ran through her whole frame; she said nothing more, and stood there like a statue; cheek, brow and bands deathly cold. As Francis closed the door she sank upon ber knees, and with her left and ringless band passionately held to her lips, she tried to stifle the great sobs which convulsed her. CHAPTER XXV. 1 Francis was extremly unhappy and uncom fortable when he loft Beauchamp, his first thought, of course, was to hunt up his cousin. He'fonnd Gerald at his mother’s, with the most provoking look of calm indifference upon his very handsome face. No trace of a sleep less night nor an evil conscience disfigured those regular features and beautiful eyes. He welcomed Ffancis as unconcernedly as possible. Joeelyn was not gracious nor ami able. Mrs. Gray was evidently quite unaware of anything unusual having happened, and en quired why he had left Ruth and the children ? 'Gerald told me that he had to come away on account of some business—’ ‘Because I had to come, mamma. I did not tell you why,’ Gerald put in, smilingly. ‘How women will jump to conclusions and fill up sentences.’ f Tes, my child, but of course, some business brought you, and you were quite content to leave dear Ruth under Francis’ care, and now, here is Francis running to town, tool I have a great mind to go to Beauchamp myself, since you outrageous hoys are so careless. ‘Better not, you will meet Mr. Desborough, perhaps, and that will bore you iptensely. ‘AhI Mr. Desborough is there! Why didn't you say so at once, and save me all my con jectures?’ Upon which, Mrs. Gray rose to leave the dining-room, adding, ‘Really, Ger ald, you have away of keeping back* things that is perfectly unaccountable.’ ‘Gerald,’ Francis as the door closed behind Mrs. Gray; ‘what are you going to do ? It is useless trying to put me off. I brought on this business and it is my place to get it all straight if possible.' ‘When Ruth sends for me, I will return— J) not sooner.’ THE SOUTHERN FIELD AND FIRESIDE. ‘She will never send.’ Taut pis pour cite.' ‘Do you think it will be taut misery pour voust’ ‘Perhaps.’ ‘Pray let me understand you. Are you pleased at the prospect of a rupture between yourself aud Ruth ? Ts it this which gives so bright a look to your countenance ?’ ‘I am intensely pleased to leave off acting— to be myself. I never could have had the hardness to tell Ruth, but since sho chose to go eaves-droppißg, and you chose to go prying, and you both heard the exact truth. I feel lighter at heart than I have done for yesra. I am very much attached to Ruth; I don’t desire to quarrel with her; I regret most in tensely that I ever deceived her about the reality of my feelings, and I am quite deter mined to avoid the society of other people. If all that doesn't satisfy her, why she can sulk as long as she pleases.’ ‘And you are not grieved, not sad ?’ ‘Not in the least. I can look men honestly in the face to-day, a thing I have not been able to do to my own satisfaction, this long while. Moreover, I wonder you are not surprised as It am, at my gentleness. If I were not full of kindness towards Ruth, I should find it diffi cult to pasß over her words and manner and actions last night. She counted upon my good temper, or she would never have dared to or der me out of the house, and this will show you how much inclined to bear with her., I ma that I should so soon pass over such an outrage.’ ‘You should write to her, at least.’ ‘Francis, have you never heard the old pro verb about coming between the bark and the tree?’ Josylyn sighed and said no more. Days passed and not one word or sign came from Beauchamp. These were miserable times for Francis, who felt restless, uneasy, unoccu pied. He watched Gerald and discovered no visible mark of unhappiness or relenting. Mrs. Gray spoke constantly of Ruth and of the children; wondered that she had' not beard from her daughter-in-law, and returned to question Gerald as to what was said in his letter from his home. As usual he gave her evasive answers. Joselyn did not dare to en lighten her, and did not care to press Gerald further. Frequently be thought of going back to Beauchamp and seeing if he could effect any change there, hut he felt that such a step was utterly useless. Everything must come from Gerald and one might as well have tried to melt a sea of ice by talking to it, as try to make an impression upon that serene young gentle man. He did not like to deliver up the envel ope with which he had been charged; the contents werfi'piaiii eriftfgh lb tne 'touch, and he feared the words were not conciliatory. He had a natural dread of precipitating matters in a final outbreak, and lingered from day to day, hoping that Gerald’s paternal affection might bring aboufa change in bis intolerable cheer fulness. He encouraged Mrs Gray to talk about the twins, and Gerald joined in with animation and delight; then the grandmother hinted as grandmothers sometimes will do, that a few details in their bringing up might bo altered to advantage; but Gerald instantly took up the cudgels for Ruth, and protested that the children were perfectly managed. Francis caught himself looking gratefully at Gerald, and could not but consider how absurd was his position—thanking the husband and his oldest and dearest friend, for Bpeaking justly of the wife whom he had never seen till a month ago. 1 A week had gone by and Francis had almost fixed upon a day for leaving the South. He was carrying a heavy heart with him, and felt that his visit had been the cause of a misfor tune that the laying down of his life would not now avert or conjure away. He and Gerald had ceased to speak on this all-important topic. He began to fear that perhaps he had already Bpoken too much. Left to themselves this couple might come to an understanding. He trusted to those holy voices healing the wound ed depths of poor Ruth’s heart; the desire to see them might exorcise the demon of pride from the mind of the offending party. Francis could not blame Ruth. He could not think any step she might take too harsh or too hard, he might pray that she should be all softness and forgiveness, but he felt that she had been tricked, outraged, insulted. If the confidence he had forced from Gerald had remained only with himself it would have appeared a lighter crime. Things that ere not widely known, will, to the best of us, seem less damaging, than a smaller matter more general y circulated. We are called upon to bear the lindignation of others, as well as to air our ewn Francis, however, (shocked as lie was) while listening to Gerald, did not so fully appreciate the cowardice and meanness of his friend’s ac tion, till he found expression in Ruth’s lips. But Gerald was correct in saying that this un happy conversation would bring disunion be tween them. Never could their intimacy be again what it had been. Francis felt himself Ruth’s champion—her sincere partisan. If their marriage no longer united Mr. and Mrs. Gray, there could be no quesiion in Joselyn’s mind as to the side on which he must range himself. If ho must choose between them— justice and inclination were equally in the balance of the duped and unloved wife. He was very sad about it; the genial, boy- 1 ish, frank hr ;1. sness of Gerald was irresistible and chare ng His saucy fondness for Francis apparent!;.- untouched and unaltered, (unless they grazed the now tacitly forbidden ground), had always been Francis’ delight. The gay nonsense and shrewd good sense, the sparkling folly and keen satire, the outward carelessness and the apparent under-current of affection in Gerald were rare and great gifts. Left early an orphan with an elder brother, morose and indifferent, and a sister as uninteresting as she was selfish, Francis had from their earliest days, attached himself to his ‘sort-of cousins.’ With the exception of one woman already hinted at, Gerald was the single being that his affectionate nature had fastened itself upon. And there was no possibility for him to respect Gerald as he had done. It is wonderful that he felt his Southern visit a failure—wished to end it, and hoped that apart, the old feelings would settle back after a while to their former condition everywhere. It was evident that his presence did no good to himself nor to any body—his absence might be more serviceable. He announced his intentions to Gerald, who urged him not to go. ‘I will stay on ono condition.’ said Joselyn. hastily. ‘My dear Francis, living among those woods so long has blunted your perception; you used to know me, once upon a time.’ A servant entered with a note, which he handed to Joselyn ; ‘From Mrs. St. Clair.’ Gerald looked at his cousin and smiled know ingly- ‘Tell Mrs. St. Clair’s servant to wait, Tom. Ah, has the bewitching Bertha returned ? She left town in another direction just after the visit to Beauchamp. Any secret ?’ •None, whatever ; she wishes to see me.’ ‘Wishes to see you I What the devil does she wish to see you for? That woman rnns after every man— ’ ‘Well, at least she never run after you. I think the runuing was the other way, wasn’t it, Gerald?’ ‘Wbat do you mean, you smiling serpent?’ asked Gerald, smiling himself. ‘You can ask her,’ said Francis, pocketing his note and walking off with a nod, while Gerald laughed and aimed a book at his head, dropping it as his cousin disappeared and let ting the gayety die out of his face, like a mask suddenly discarded. (continued in our next.) -- - —». 1 ■ [Written for the Southern Field aud Fireside.] FATAL BKVIJTV. In the late foreign news it is stated that the Marchese Doria, a celebrated Italian beauty, was dead, from having Mowers constantly in her sleeping apartments It may have struck the reader with surprise that such a circum stance could possibly have produced so fatal a result, and surprise must, doubtless, have been all from the utter incongruity we imagine existing between the idea of blooming flowers, and the thoughts of relentless death. Still, strange as it may seem, there appears to be no reason to doubt the death of the Mar chese by the me'ans mentioned, for, as can be shown in a few words, if the reader has hut patience to read them, the action of flowers and plants upon the physical system is, under certain circumstances, exceedingly deleterious and sometimes, as in the case of this Italian beauty, fatal. The fact itself has been known for many, many years, and its verity is testified to by the sad experiences of some centuries, though it has not been until comparatively modern times that the philosophy of this most singular phenomenon has been rightly under stood. The reader has, no doubt, noticed that a habitation closely surrounded by trees, or a cot embowered in shrubbery, though very pretty to look at, and very romantic to talk of, is not by any means the most pleasant or healthful abode wherein to live. Sufch dwellings are generally damp aDd chilly, and to this damp ness and chilliness, occasioned by the foliage shutting out the rays of the sun, the unheal thiness is attributed. This deprivation of light and heat has, beyond question, much to do with the evils alluded to, but even if the sun were to beat down upon the roof, and come in at the windows all day long, the very pre sence of a dense vegetation in such close prox imity, would be sufficient to make it to the full as unwholesome. In order to explain how this is so, a word may be necessary as to the constitution and functions of plants, and the composition of air they breathe—for, singular as it may seem, reader, plants breathe no less than men and animals. The microscope reveals the fact that on the surface of the leaves of plants there are an almost infinite number of little pores— the lungs of the plant—which perform the process of respiration as regularly and con stantly as you or I, inhaling the atmospheric * air, extracting therefrom the elements requi | site for their proper support, and exhaling the residue in the form of gases. The extreme ’ number of these little pores, or lungs, is some thing wonderful, and scarcely less so is the | rapidity with which they perform their appoint ed functions. Some faint conception of their number may be obtained when we state that ' upon a single oak tree seven million of leaves have been counted, and that each of these leaves has, upon an average, four thousand pores, thus making the number of lungs pos sessed by a single monarch of the woods equal ’ to something like twenty-eight billions. In the same way, even a much humbler member , of the vegetable kingdom—a laurel plant— has nearly four thousand million, and so on down to the modest little violets and daisies which have each as many lungs as we have hairs upon our heads. We, with our two lungs, will find, if we take the tronble to make the experiment, that a single respiration occu pies a very appreciable portion of time. bu l the plaut, with its millions, respires with the speed of light, and the velocity of the wind. All that is required is that the breeze shall touch the leaves, and when it does this, no matter how fast the blast is speeding by, these wonderful lungs will suck in the air, disengage, the ingredient they need and send forth their breath upon the gale. This is the way, then, in which all plants respire, but in order to •showhow this breath, thus sent forth, is nox ious to animal life, we must speak of the con stitution of the air. This, the atmosphere wo breathe is, ag philosophers tell us, a composi tion of four ingredients, oxygen, nitrogen, carbonic acid gas, nnd watery vapor, all equal ly invisible and impalpable, though differing widely in nature and qualities. Oxygen is the life giving element, but is so potent, that if not alloyed, it would cause us to live too fast, and burn out as speedily as a candle in a strong draught. For this reason it is largely temper ed with nitrogen—a gas that is not capable of maintaining liglx or life. Besides these ingre dients, which make up the great bulk of the air, we have in small quantities carbonic acid gas, a virulent poison, in which light is instant ly extinguished and life expires, and a watery vapor that maintains a necessary humidity in the, air. Now, on breathing in this air, our lungs separate the oxygen, which they appro priate to their own uso, and exhale or breathe out the greater bulk of the other ingredients. This process goes on day and night without intermission or change, from the time we are born till we 'he. Should it cease at any time for more than a few minutes, we expire ; or should the constitution of tbo air itself be changed—should it contain too iittie oxygen or too much nitrogen or carbonic acid gas, the same fatal consequence ensues. Such is human respiration. That of plants is different in many respects. During the day these pores or lungs of which mention has been made, breathe in the atmospheric air, extract therefrom the poisonous element of carbonic acid gas, and return the healthful compound of oxygen and nitrogen. Thus it will be seen that plants per form a beneficial process, and it may seem inex plicable how any fatal results can be produced by their respiration. It will be noticed, how ever, that we say this absorption of carbonic acid gas, and giving back of oxygen occurs during the day. bight is absolutely necessary to the process, and when it fails at the ap proach of and dining the night, the eutire process is reversed, and it is the poisonous and unhealthy gas that is breathed forth by the million little lungs of the plant. Though the quantity exhaled is not such as to kill in any short time, it will where plants and flow ers are kept in a sleeping apartment, so contam inate the air as to lay the basis of a cruel com plaint which attacks the bronchial and respira tory organs, and finally prove fatal to the un fortunate slumberer, who loves flowers, as did the beautiful Marohese Doria, “ not wisely, but too well." p>_ ‘ If thou desire not to be too poor, desire not be too rich ; he is rich, not that possesses much, but he that covets no more; and he is poor, not that enjoys little, but he that wants too much; the contented mind wants nothing whioh it hath not; the covetons mind wants not only what it hath not, but likewise wha t it hath. i