dying bed of that faithless but still beloved husband. a child about pecuniary affairs, Jessie left every thing Edgar Darsie had inherited his mother's disease, to Herbert, and consequently never knew at what together with her beauty. His excesses had hastened sacrifice he rescued Edgar's good name from obloquy, the period of its development, and ten years after his and paid his enormous debts. Nor did she ever know marriage he was withering like grass before the that the money which had supported their extravagant hunter's fire, beneath the touch of consumption. Day expenditure in Paris, was the free gift of Herbert. after day he faded-his stately form became bowed, But daily and hourly did she experience Herbert's his bright face changed, his silken locks fell away considerate kindness. Fearing to awaken her susfrom his hollow temples. Health was gone, and picions relative to his agency in her marriage, he beauty soon departed. determined to continue to her an allowance similar to that which he had bestowed upon his brother. But to do this required new retrenchments, and the sacrifice of a fine landed property; for Edgar's lavish prodigality had cost him so large a portion of his fortune that it now needed the most careful and judicious management. With the approach of death came old memories thronging about his heart, and filling his sick chamber with fantasies and spectres of long by-gone days. "Take me home! take me home!" was the bitter cry. But his "home-wo" came too late. Never again would he leave his bed until he was carried to the House appointed for all living. At the first tidings of his illness Herbert had sailed for Havre, and traveled with all speed to Paris; but when he arrived there his heart failed him. He remembered Edgar's avowed jealousy of him, and the wild, fierce joy which thrilled his heart when he found himself once more near to Jessie, taught him that he was not entirely guiltless toward his brother. He accordingly took lodgings in the same hotel, that he might be near Edgar, in case he should wish to see him, well knowing that the mode of life in Paris secured him the most perfect privacy. He made known his present abode to a certain business-agent, through whose hands letters had usually been sent to him from Paris, and thus he received from Jessie's hand constant tidings of his brother's condition. But this state of things could not last long. His impatience to be with Edgar led him to seize upon the first faint intimation of a wish to see him, and he soon found himself welcomed with tears of joy by Jessie, while Edgar thanked him with his eyes-those tender eyes-for his thoughtful kindness in coming without waiting for a summons. During three months Herbert shared with Jessie her care and watchfulness over the invalid. All the lovable qualities of Edgar's nature were brought out by his sickness, and Herbert could not help feeling the full force of those fascinations which had won for him the love of every one. Weakened in mind as well as in body by his disease, he was like a lovely and gentle child, so docile, so affectionate, so helpless, so tender, and so altogether lovely did he appear, as the dark wing of death flung its shadow broader and deeper above his couch. He died with penitence for past misdeeds deeprooted in his heart, and prayer for pardon lingering on his lips. He died clasping his brother's hand in his, and the last act of his life was a vain attempt to unite Jessie's hand in the same grasp. There was no time for the indulgence of selfish feeling at such a moment. The presence of death had hushed the whispers of earthly passion, and the grief of both the brother and the widow was the genuine tribute of affection to the departed. As soon as Edgar's affairs could be arranged, the widow, with her only surviving child, returned to America under the protection of Herbert. Ignorant as If Herbert hoped to marry his brother's widow, he at least determined to leave her free to choose for herself. Jessie found herself pleasantly domiciled in a new home, with a handsome provision for herself and child, and surrounded by all the appliances of American comfort before she had yet recovered from the dull torpor of her grief. For fifteen years Herbert had lived but for her. During the five years preceding her marriage his whole soul had been devoted to her; and when afterward he tried to banish her image, he found though he might dethrone the idol, the sentiment of loyal love, like a subtile perfume, had diffused itself through his whole being. Was it strange, then, if he should once more dream that his love and faith might do more than remove mountains -that his devotion might veil the unsightliness of his person-that he might yet be beloved and rewared? "Now tell me, Annie, how do you think my story is going to end?" "In the marriage of Jessie to the devoted Herbert," replied Annie. "It is not in the nature of woman to be insensible to such devotion." "Remember that Jessie knew nothing of his pecuniary sacrifices, had no suspicion of his agency in bringing about her marriage; did not dream of his self-denying, self-forgetting love." "But no woman could doubt the true meaning of all his devotedness." "He had never flattered her with gentle words; never wooed her in courtly phrase; never played the lover in the most approved fashion. He had been the adviser, the Mentor, the steady friend; love had been the pervading and animating soul of all he thought and all he did, but his very magnanimity had been as a cloak to conceal his affections. Do you think a woman like Jessie-an ordinary woman, lovely and gentle, but withal having no perception of that inner life which so few can penetrate-do you think she could see through this magnanimous reserve, and detect the hidden love?" 'Surely, surely!" "Recollect that she had early learned to pity him for his personal defects, and though 'pity' may be ' akin to love' in our sex, yet no woman ever loves a man she must look down upon with compassion." "But his nobler qualities must have commanded her respect." The caps of the pilasters represent the sun; the base of them, the half moon with Joe Smith's profile. The windows between the pilasters represent stars. A large female figure with a Bible in one hand is the vane. An inscription on the front, in large gilt letters, By permission of Mr. J. R. Smith, we have caused | front by 150 deep; 200 feet to the top of the spire. a view of the Mormon Temple at Nauvoo to be engraved from his splendid Panorama of the Mississippi, and we give the engraving in this number. As the building has been recently destroyed by fire, our engraving, the first ever published, acquires additional value. We copy from Mr. Smith's descrip-reads as follows: tion of the Panorama, the following account of Nauvoo and the Temple: "Nauvoo.-A Mormon city and settlement, now deserted. It is one of the finest locations for a town upon the river, it being situated at the second and last rapids below the Falls of St. Anthony, which extend from this place to Keokuk, a distance of 12 miles. The great Mormon Temple stands out conspicuous. It is the finest building in the west, and if paid for would have cost over half a million of dollars. It is built of a white stone, resembling marble, 80 feet "The House of the Lord, built by the Church of Jesus Christ of the Latter Day Saints. Commenced April 6, 1841. Holiness to the Lord." There is in the basement of the temple a large stonebasin, supported by twelve oxen of colossal size, about fifteen feet high altogether, all of white stone and respectably carved. A staircase leads up to the top of the basin. It is the font where all the Mormons were baptized. It is seen in the Panorama standing aside the Temple, but in the basement is its real situation. ROSE WINTERS. A TALE OF FIRST LOVE. BY ESTELLE. "I SHALL never have another hour's happiness as long as I live!" exclaimed Rose Winters, weeping passionately. "You wouldn't let me marry him, father, and now he 's gone to sea, and said he should never come back." "Don't believe it, Rose," said Mr. Winters. "He'll be glad enough to come back, I'll warrant you-and the longer he stays away the better, I'm thinking, it will be for you." enough then, and pretty enough, too, to get another beau." "I wont have any other!" exclaimed Rose. "I am determined to wait for him, if he stays twenty years" and with this resolution she hastily turned away and ran to her own room, where, secure from observation, she might give free vent to her full heart in a long fit of weeping. We are at a loss to imagine what sort of an im "It's not like you, father, to be so unfeeling," said pression our rustic heroine, Rose Winters, has made Rose, sobbing almost hysterically. "Nonsense, child-unfeeling, indeed! ay, ay, it may be so in your judgment, I dare say, but I must judge with the head, and not with the heart." "I think I ought to be allowed to judge for myself, now I'm of age," answered Rose, with sudden spirit. "I was eighteen my last birthday." "True, Rose, you have had great experience of mankind, no doubt. But come, now, just tell me what you could have done if you had married Bob Selwyn, with no fortune yourself, and he nothing to depend on but his hands?" "We could have done as other people do," said Rose-" we could have worked. Have I not always worked at home, father?" "To be sure you have. You have been a good, industrious girl, Rosy, that I sha'n't deny; but your work at home was not like pulling continually at the rowing oar, which would have been your portion all your life, I'm afraid, with Robert. I can't see, for my part, what you wanted to marry him for." "Because I loved him, and he loved me. Didn't you and mother marry for love, father?" Mr. Winters could not forbear laughing at this question, notwithstanding Rose's grief-and his natural droll humor struggled with his former seriousness as he replied, "Well, I must try to remember. It is nearly twenty years ago, now-so long that you have come of age in the meanwhile, and fancy you are wiser than your father. But I can tell you one thing, Rose, if we did marry for love, we had something to begin the world with, which is quite as necessary. You know the old proverb, 'When poverty comes in at the door, love flies out of the window.'" "I don't believe any such thing, father. Whoever wrote that proverb never knew what love was. It was a mean thing in any man to say so; and what would never have come from a woman, I'll be · bound." "Well, well, Rosy, you may dry your eyes. I wish I was as sure of a fortune for you, as I am that Robert will be back with the ship, if his life is spared; but if that should n't be the case, you will be young on the minds of our readers, from her unceremonious introduction to them through the foregoing dialogue: but at all events, she is deserving of a more detailed description. She was the daughter of a respectable farmer on Long Island, who resided in a country village, situated on the Atlantic ocean, and near a large seaport town. Mr. Winters was a shrewd, practical man, of strong natural powers of mind, and excellent plain common sense. Rose was his eldest and favorite child, and inherited his independent spirit and natural gifts of understanding, which had been improved in her by a useful and solid education at a first-rate country school. She was not, perhaps, strictly beautiful, but her cheeks were bright with the hue of health, and her dark-blue eyes sparkled with animation, and the joyousness of a young heart, over which a lasting shadow had never passed, until her lover left her to try his fortunes on the sea. Her figure was small, but of exquisite proportions, and her steps sprang elastic with the unchecked spirits of happy childhood. She was always agreeable and entertaining without effort, for her words flowed in the easiest manner possible, from a mouth which nature had made perfect; and then there was nothing on earth more inspiring than her merry laugh, which seemed like the very chorus of joy, and insensibly imparted a portion of her own gayety to all around her. Rose had but little of imagination in her heart or feelings. She was a young, gay creature, full of spirits and activity, and only actuated by the everyday scenes of life, from which she extracted mirth and enjoyment to diffuse unsparingly among all who came within her influence. There was also a truthfulness and integrity in her nature, which could not fail to give beauty, strength, and elevation to her thoughts and character. The visions of romance which so often pervert the minds of the young, and throw a false coloring over the world, were all unknown to Rose. She had been nurtured amid scenes where there was but little to excite or enrich the imagination, but much to awaken bold and lofty sentiments. Born and brought up within sight and sound of the grand and magnificent ocean, she de |