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LOVE’S WORK. It was a wondrous temple. A temple fair to see. On it an hundred artists Did work right willingly. Taller it grew and fairer Till thousands ever came, To watch its growth and grandeur— So far had spread its fame. At last, to the master artist, • Came a man white-haired and old. To him the world was sorrow, And life had lost its gold. “Give me, O, Master Artist, Tools of a sculptor. I’ll trace On the walls of thy noble temple An image that haunts—a face.” And the gentle Master Artist Grieved to refuse his plea, Yet feared he still to grant it Lest his work be ill to see. But he led him thro’ the arches To a far secluded place, “Carve here,” he said, “ that image That haunts thee so—that face.” And he thought no more about it, As the old man toiled away, For the place, except at even, Saw not the light of day. But lo! one day as with pallette, • He was painting a picture rare, There rose from the men a. murmur That swelled on the evening air. And they led him to a window, Where a ray of the setting sun Fell on the forgotten sculptor. His work in the temple done. For, touched by the evening splendor. Was a face so wondrous fair, That the people thought an angel Was beaming upon it there. And, his face still calm and trustful, While the sun-light crown’d his head, His eyes on the face of the one he’d loved, Lay the grand old sculptor—dead. Reverently said the Master, “She guided him while above, Come, let us leave them together— 'Twas the work, not of man, but love.” [£. H. B.for Woman's Work. For Woman’s Work. THE FIRST QUARREL. BY MRS. F. M. HOWARD. “And we shall have a home of our own, our very own, shan’t we dear!” said Mollie, the young wife. “That we will,” replied Walter, delight edly, “and then goodby to boarding-house coffee, and hotel mystery, for I know my little wife is a perfect cook—as she is per fect in everything else.” The little wife’s face fell a trifle; in truth, cooking was a branch of her educa tion which had been sadly neglected, but it seemed such a simple art that she had little fear but that she ceuld soon master it—so her lace brightened again, as they went on chatting gaily of the house they were to have, the furniture they would se lect, as happily as two robins over their first nest building. “And to think that we have spent six whole foolish months boarding, when we might have been house-keeping,” said Mollie, regretful.y. “Well, never cry over spilt milk, pet,” replied Walter, consolingly. “Come down to the office at four, and we will go carpet hunting.” During the three hours which elapsed between Walter’s departure and four o’clock, Mollie did some serious thinking. The cooking question loomed up before her again in larger proportions than ever. In her girlish days her ideas of married life had been as the wife of a rich man, in a grand house, and with servants in plenty to carry on the prosaic details of the house hold without any more serious interven tion of her own than the ordering of the meals and an occasional lofty supervision of affairs in general, but cupid had stepped in on her plans with his little mischievous arrow nailed her happiness to the destiny of Walter Graham, a rising young lawyer, who. having survived the “starvation - pe riod,” intervening between graduation at a law school and the, establishment of a • successful practice, was able to take a wife on a frugal and economical basis, hence the matter of cooking became a practical matter of dollars and cents, as Mollie rea lized the truth of the adage, that “a wife can throw out at the window, faster than a man can bring in at the door.” A bright thought struck her. “I will attend the cooking school. I shall have plenty of time to spend two hours there in the forenoon and W alter shall never know of it until I can surprise him with my su perior cookery.” And she clapped her hands gleefully, for Mollie was an impul sive creature, and she had not yet merged her emotional nature into the dignity of a wife. To plan was to act with her, and the fol lowing morning she betook herself to the cooking school where the two hours she had allotted herself passed by on swift wings, for her interest in the details of cooking was fully areused. She began on plain bread making, the foundation stone of good housewifery ; next the proper cooking of meats and vegeta bles, and it was not until the little home was all furnished and occupied that she reached the fancy work of the art, namely, the pudding and pie department. It was a dainty little home; Mollie’s taste in house furnishing being quite re markable. She often wished she had the well filled purse of her next door neighbor to rely upon in making her selections, but as she had not, she made good taste take the place of luxury with charming success. No cloud of disagreement had crossed the fair horizon of their married life, when Mollie and Walter sat down to a dinner prepared after a bill of fare for two, fur nished at the cooking school. Mollie had guarded her little secret well, and her visits to the cooking school were as yet unknown to Walter. She had met with failures, what young wife does not? but Walter had been in a sunny humor and had ignored or else smoothed them over with loving words: but to-day his head ached, and a wearisome client had talked him to the very verge of distraction and man like he had brought his office worries home with him. Os course Mollie had not lived with him long enough to learn all his tastes, and did not know that her main dish, boiled codfish, was his pet and particular aversion, the sight of which would have driven him from his mother’s table. In fact he had a well developed sweet tooth, and bread, pie and cake, formed his favorite diet to the exclusion of the more homely and servicable articles of food which he only nibbled at in deference to Mollie. The little round table was daintily set with the new china and bright silver, and Mollie in a pretty white apron presided over the coffee with a smile. She was very fond of cod-fish herself and was con fident she had furnished a dinner which would be a treat to Walter as well. His nose went up a trifle as the fish odor crept out but he opened the pretty tureen without remark. Snowy boiled potatoes fit for an epicure, met his eye; another a fish tureen, and the obnoxious food appeared in all its hideousness. He struggled bravely with his disgust however, and helped his wife to her por tion, and y.tmselt sparingly. “ And what is this Mollie ?” he asked, lifting a gravy bowl filled with an unfami liar compound, and looking suspiciously at the contents. “ Vinegar sauce dear, for the fish,” re plied Mollie; it was on her tongue’s end to say that she had just learned its decoc tion at the cooking school. It was her first secret from Walter, and it was dread fully hard to keep. Walter partook gingerly, taking a few mouthfuls, but he could not bestow upon the—to him—unsavory dish the praise with which he had been accustomed to greet Mollie’s successes, and Mollie noticed the omission with surprise “Don’t you like codfish, Walter?” she asked, timidly. “Well, I can’t say I doat on it,” he re plied dryly ; he was thinking of his un pleasant client or perhaps he might have spoken in a pleasanter tone. “ Here is something you will relish, perhaps,” and she dished out a liberal sup ply of a new potato salad which she had just learned to make at the cooking school. Walter took one taste. Vinegar was one of the principal ingredients in this compound also, and vinegar he detested in nearly evgry form; his head gave him an extra twinge also, and between the two, his face puckered into an extremely un amiable expression as he said hastily, “Bless us, Mollie, what horrible messes you do get up.” Mollie looked at him in wrathful sur prise, too angry at the moment to feel hurt, and her dark eyes flashed fire as she retorted, “Perhaps you would prefer your mother’s cooking, Mr. Graham.” Mr. Graham indeed. Vinegar was bad enough in potato salad, even codfish might be endurable, but “Afr.” to him at their own private table was too much, and he snapped back angrily and hastily, “My mother would never set such a mess before her family,” and rising, he reached for his hat and left the room, slamming the door behind him. He was ashamed of himself before he had gone two steps, and had a mind to go back and ask forgiveness, but Mollie’s eyes, as she said that unfortunate “Mr. Graham,” rose up before him, and he strode on, his anger cooling but his stub borness rising up and keeping him from acting the manly part and making up the quarrel at once. As for Mollie her anger cooled in a mo ment, and she burst into a passion of tears. “The horrid, horrid man,” she sobbed, “to treat me so when I had worked so hard to please him, and to throw his mother at me in that fashion,” quite forgetting in her excitement that she had mentioned “moth er’s” cooking first to him. Her appetite was all gone and she cleared away the little feast she had prepared with so much pride and pleasure, with a heavy heart, and sat down to her sewing with eyes red with weeping. “How shall I meet him at evening?” she queried, as she sewed. “He certainly owes me an abject apology, and I cannot forgive him until he makes it.” “If Mollie had left off that Mr. Graham the tiff might have been easier made up,” Walter was saying at the moment, “but that, in addition to such a dinner was insult added to injury. Blest if I know how to make it up. Ido hate humble pie even worse than codfish.” Just then a small boy presented himself at the door. “A letter for ye, mister,” grinning amiably as he held out a white envelope, and Walter’s heart gave a satis fied throb as he thought, “Mollie has writ ten a note of apology, bless her, and—,” but the letter was not from Mollie, but from Mrs. Graham Sr., who sent a cordial invi tation to her son and Mollie to take tea with her that evening. “The dicKens I” he ejaculated, the making up becoming moie complicated, “that mat ter must be settled before we go, or mother will be finding it out, and she would ‘jack me up sharp,’ to use an expressman’s phrase, if she knew how cross I had spoken to Mollie.” “ Here, you boy, take this letter to my wife,” he added to the smiling urchin who was balancing himself on one foot in the doorway, and he scribbled hastily, “ Will call for you at five. Walter.” He had no thought in his haste of the cool phraseology of his sentence, but Mollie noticed it, and the tears welled up again as she read it thinking bitterly, “ He might have said Mollie, at least, if he could not bring himself to say dear Mollie. It would serve him just right to go on ahead and leave him to come alone,” and acting on the impulse of the moment she called the boy who was making an effort to stand on his head not far away, and, after scribbling another line on the letter, “ Will meet you at Mrs. Graham’s. Mollie,” entrusted it once more to his grimy hands to be de livered to Walter. Mollie was seated in Mother Graham’s cosy parlor when Walter appeared looking glum and miserable. Her curt reply had cut him fully as much as his terse message to her, and both weite far from comforta ble. Fortunately mother was a little near sighted and did not notice the coldness and constraint between the young people, but chatted away as gaily as if quarrels and cod-fish had never been heard of. She was a famous cook, and as she led the way to the supper table she had reason to be proud of the epicurean dainties spread so profusely on the neatly set table. Father and mother occupied the ends of the table while Mollie and Walter sat oppo site each other at the sides. Mother had poured the tea and father had passed the delicious biscuit, the golden butter and the crisp, Saratoga chips, the young people meanwhile looking studiously away from each other and making a prodigious effort to seem to be enjoying themselves, when Mother Graham called out cheerily, “Pass Walter that potato salad, Mollie, it’s a new kind I’ve just learned to make and I know he’ll relish it.” Mollie lifted the tureen of salid, the ex act counterpart of her own at dinner time, her face turning a rosy red as she did so, and obediently handed the dish to Walter across the table. He gave one look at the salad, his nos trils inhaling the odor of the offensive vin egar and thus their eyes met. It was too funny, and each burst into a peai of laughter. Mollie laughed until the tears came, and now that the matter could be turned into a joke Walter explained the mystery to the astonished old people and took the expected “jacking up,” with the greatest humanity. ‘When Mollie has had forty years ex perience in house-keeping you can talk to her about ‘Mother’s cooking,’ if you want to,” said Mrs. Graham, serenely, “but don’t expect the results of a life time of experi ence from a month’s practice.” “If I ever find fault with the victuals again, Mollie,” said Walter, as they walked slowly homeward in the evening, “you just I keep me on codfish for a week, will you?” I “And I will try and not call you Mr. Graham in future,” said Mollie, lilting her lips for a kiss of reconciliation, which was given heartily under the friendly cover of the darkness, happily ending the moment ous “First Quarrel.” If a closet does not contain a lower shelf for shoes, a shoe-bag tacked to the inner side of the door will answer the same pur pose. If the bag is large enough to con ceal its contents, the words “Boots,” “Slip pers” and “Rubbers” may be wrought with Kensington stitches on the proper compartments. For Woman’s Work. TWO PICTURES OF JACKSON VILLE. BY GENIE ORCHARD. A few months ago the city of Jackson ville was a scene of bewildering beauty and gaiety, lull of life and color. To-day she is a “city of the dead,” a charnel house of suffering. Only a few months ago, she was the Metropolis of the Floral State. The haven for the invalid and the retreat of the tourist. The hotels were radiant with wealth and beauty. Her streets were brilliant with princely equipages. The public squares and gardens resounded with the merry shouts and laughter of children at play. The song of the venders made quaint music, as they carrried their panniers of fruit and flowers, poised gracefully on their turbaned heads. Invalids reclined beneath the shade of orange and magnolia trees, and inhaled life and strength from the pure healing air. Through the rose and camelia thickets, lovers strayed, or rested on the banks of the St. John’s—whose stream is fringed with all the jewel-like beauties of the tropics. The palmetto with its piercing sheathe—and the banana with its crown of golden fruit stood in stately watch near the clear waters. There amid all this gorgeous blaze of color—and the intoxicating fragrance of the drowsy voluptuous air, these “Lotus Eaters” spent the days in this world of leisure, dream and passion. ******* See that city to-day. The pall of death is draped where revelry and pleasure reigned. The very air seems laden with disease. People walk the streets in silence; the thoroughfares are still, and business stagnant. The great traffic with the outer world is closed, and the city gates are locked with the key of death. Even the churches are closed—the people are afraid to meet and pray; palatial homes are de serted and barricaded against the insidious microbes that infest the atmosphere. The gardens and parks are silent; the creamy cups of the magnolia and the scarlet bells of the lazi, emit the odor of death. The palm spears and ilex boughs droop and wave heavily beneath the miasmic breath. The perfume from the orange groves passes in waves of sickening fragrance o’er the heated air. The voice of the”street ven ders are silent, as they rest in little groups with their trays of unsold fruit and flowers. No children shout or sing; their little voices are hushed, and many are sealed by the touch of death. Alas ! it is a pestilen tial city. Once she stood proudly before the world, crowned with tropical beauty, and all the floral wealth of creation rested within her arms. In - her right hand she held the healing balm of life and health, while her left dispensed love and charity. To-day she stands deserted and alone. Her gaunt arms are raised in despair, and her drapings are the habiliments of death. Wildly she prays to God that He may open the vaults of his mercy, that the Ice King may pass in and breathe on all his frosty breath, and scatter the crystals from his diadem to heal dying world. For Woman’s Work. ENTHUSIASM. • ■ Let us recognize the beauty and power of true enthusiasm, and whatever we may do to enlighten ourselves and others, guard against checking or chilling a single earn est sentiment. For what is the human mind, however enriched with acquisitions, if unaccompanied by an ardent and sensi tive heart? Its light may illumine, but it cannot inspire; it may. shed a cold moonlight radience over the path of life, but it warms no flower into bloom ; it sets free no ice-bound fountain. It is true our contemplation of the beautiful is of short duration—our flights into the ideal world brief and occasional—but may they not be unconsciously absorbed into the essence of our life, and gradually refine and exalt the spirit within us ? Bulwer Lytton demonstrates his admi ration of this noble quality: -“Nothing is so contagious as enthusiasm; it is the real allegory of the tale of Orpheus; it moves rocks, it charms brutes, it is the genius of sincerity and truth.” And earnestness, which is a kindred spirit, he defines as “the best gift of mental power.” Mattings now come in the plain straw color, dark blues, reds and other plain col lors, besides a variety of fancy designs, combining several colors. The best mat tings are woven without the joinings at every few yards, which are a disagreeable feature of the cheaper grades. These “seam less ” mattings can be turned, and look equally well on both sides.