“Have you heard any thing further?” said Lucy, one evening to her husband, as he came in from a day’s hard work, “concerning poor Mrs. Lowry or her husband?” “Yes! my love,” said he, “and it is all over.” “What! has any thing alarming happened?” said Lucy, anxiously. “Sit down, dearest, and don’t tremble so,” said her husband, tenderly, putting his arm around her waist, and drawing her to the sofa, “and I will tell you the whole of the melancholy story. “After his bankruptcy last week, some days elapsed before any thing was known of the place to which my unfortunate friend had gone. It was supposed at first that he had fled with what funds he could lay his hands on. This was the more credible from the ignorance of his wife as to whither he had gone. She, cold-hearted thing, seemed to care little for his loss, but appeared to be chiefly affected by her deprivation of fortune. She even upbraided her husband publicly, and it is said, when some forgeries which he had perpetrated were discovered, and a strict search set on foot after the criminal, she went so far as to hope he might be taken and brought to condign punishment. But you know they never lived happy together. Well, every attempt to trace the fugitive having failed, the search was about being given up in despair, when intelligence was brought to the city this morning, that a dead body, answering to the description of that of Mr. Lowry, had been washed ashore, a few miles down the river. You may well look alarmed, for the intelligence was too true. It was the body of my poor friend. It is supposed that grief, shame at his bankruptcy, and perhaps remorse for his crime, led him to commit suicide. Poor fellow! his sad fate may be traced to his ill-assorted marriage. He chose a woman whose extravagance always outstripped her fortune, and who, from having brought him wealth, considered him beneath her. He did not know the difference in a wife between Worth and Wealth. * * * * * THE DUSTY WHITE ROSE. BY MRS. VOLNEY E. HOWARD. This is not thy place—oh! thou dusty white rose, This is not thy place, by the dusty highway, Thou shouldst bud where the murmuring rivulet flows, And sings itself off through the meadows away. Yes—there is thy place, on the distant green lea, Where the sweet hawthorn blossoms, and wild warblers sing. There, fanned by the zephyr, and woo’d by the bee, Thou mightst rival thy fair sister buds of the spring. Thou remindest me much, oh! thou poor blighted flower, Of a fair human blossom, I met on life’s way; She struggled and liv’d through dark Destiny’s hour, But like thine, has her young bloom all wilted away.