We are at a loss to imagine what sort of an impression our rustic heroine, Rose Winters, has made 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 every-day 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 delighted to gaze on its rolling and breaking billows, and listen to its ceaseless sounding roar, which had often been the solemn lullaby to her nightly slumbers. The wide and level fields outspread before her native home, and the few bare hills which skirted here and there the distant outline, were but little calculated to inspire those enchanting, but unreal dreams, which seem insensibly to arise amid the mountain scenery so wildly beautiful and picturesque in many parts of our western world.