Old Mrs. Bond had taken her station on the sunny side of her piazza. Mrs. Bond was no sentimentalist, as I have said before. She had never read a line of poetry in her life; but she had read her Bible, and she loved to watch the glorious sun go down, and think of the golden streets of the New Jerusalem, with its gates of pearl, and walls of jasper. Many a blessed vision from that sunset-seat had she seen with her spiritual eyes; and many a sealed passage in the Holy Book which lay upon her lap, had then, and there, and thus, been solved; and many a prayer had gone from thence swift-winged to heaven.

The Bible contains great and mighty truths which none of us may safely reject; but apart from this, no mind, how uncultivated soever, can be familiar with its glowing beauty and sublimity, without being unconsciously refined.

Oh! how many times, even to the God-forgetting, has the beauty of its imagery come home with a force and aptness which no uninspired pen, how gifted soever, could rival!

How vital and immovably lodged, though buried for years under the dust of worldliness, its wise and indisputable precepts!

How like a sun-flash they sometimes illume what else were forever mystery-shrouded!

And now the last tint of gold and crimson had faded out, and one bright star sparkled like a gem on the brow of the gray old mountain, behind which the sun had sank—bright as the Star of Bethlehem to Judea's gazing shepherds, and like them, Mrs. Bond knelt and worshiped.

Broad as the world was her Bible-creed: it embraced all nations, all colors, all sects. Whosoever did the will of God the same was her father, sister, and mother; and like the face of Moses when he came down from the mount, hers shone that evening with the reflected glory of heaven.

The traveler could not have told, as he stopped before that little brown house, and stepped on its homely piazza, why he raised his hat with such an involuntary deference to the unpretending form before him; why his simple "Good evening, madam," should have been so reverently spoken; but so it was; and the kind old lady's welcome to a seat by her frugal board was just as unaccountably to himself accepted.

The traveler was a tall, dark-browed man, with a face and form which must have been once pre-eminently attractive; but now, his fine dark eyes were sunken, as if grief, or sickness, perhaps both, had weighed heavily there; and his tall form seemed bent with weakness. All this his kind hostess noted, and her nicest cup of tea was prepared, and the wholesome loaf set before him, and a blessing craved over it, from lips which knew no fear of man, with Heaven in sight. Perhaps this touched a chord to which the stranger's heart vibrated, for his eyes grew moist with unshed tears, and his voice was tremulous when he addressed his hostess.

"Can you tell me, madam, how far it is to the nearest inn?"

"A weary way, sir—a matter of fifteen miles, and you so feeble. You are quite welcome to stay here, sir, till morning; and your horse will be well content in yonder pasture."

"You are very kind, madam," said the stranger, hesitatingly; then adding with a smile, "travelers who have preceded me on this road must have borne a good name."

"There is nothing here to tempt a thieving hand," said Mrs. Bond. "I seldom think at night of barring yonder door. Where one's trust is in an Almighty arm, there is little room for fear.

"I can remember when yonder broad oak was but a sapling. I was born and married here, sir; through that door my husband and child passed to their long home. My time can not be long; but while I stay, every stone and twig in this place is dear to me."

"With pleasant memories for company, one can not be lonesome," replied the stranger.

"No—and sad ones may be made pleasant, if one only knows how," and she laid her withered hand on the Bible.

As she did so a paper fluttered out from between its leaves. "Sometimes, though," said she, as she took it up, "one's faith is sorely tried.

"This now—this letter—it was from my child. I called her my child, and yet no blood of mine ever flowed in her veins; and she called me 'mother,' because my heart warmed to her; God knows she had sore need of it, poor lamb.

"An old woman like myself may speak plain words, sir. He who was her child's father left her to weep over it alone. It was heart-breaking to see the poor young thing try to bear up, try to believe that he whom her innocent heart trusted, would turn out worthy of its love; but sometimes she would quite break down with the grief; and when she grew fretful with it, I did not chide her, because I knew her heart was chafed and sore.

"Her's was such a lovely babe; so bright, and handsome, and winsome. She was good and loving too. She had not sinned. She had been deceived and wronged. So she could not bear the taunting word, sir; and when it came, unexpectedly to us, she fled away like a hunted deer, through yonder door, till her poor strength gave out, and then we found her and the babe just like dead.

"I brought her home, and nursed her along, and thought to keep her, and make it all easy for her; but her young heart pined for him—she fancied, poor child, she could find him, and the world so wide—and that he would lift her pure brow in the taunting world's face, and call her 'wife;' and so she fled away in the night, no one knew whither, and left me this letter, sir. My eyes are dim—but I have no need to read it, for the words come up to me by day and by night; read it yourself, sir—mayhap in your travels, you may hear of the poor young thing—I should so like to know of her, before I die.

"The light is but dim, sir," said the old lady, as the traveler took it in his hand, and held the letter between his face and Mrs. Bond's.

Yes—the light was dim, so were the traveler's eyes; he must have been sadly feeble too, for his hands trembled so that he could scarcely hold the letter.

"And you never heard from her, after this?" he asked, his eyes still riveted on the letter.

"Not a word, sir; it makes me so sad when I think of it; perhaps she may be dead."

"Perhaps so," answered the traveler, shuddering.

"May be you could make some inquiries, sir, if it would not trouble you, as you go along; her name was Rose, though she looked more like a lily when she left us, poor thing! Rose—and her lover's name was Vincent; perhaps you may have heard of him."

"The name sounds familiar," said the stranger; "perhaps I shall be able to get some clew to it."

"Thank you," said Mrs. Bond, gratefully; "and now, sir, as I get up early I go to rest early; so, if you please, I will show you your room; it is very plain—but it is all the spare one I have. It was poor Rose's room;" and Mrs. Bond taking her candle, led the way to it.

"There," said she, setting the light down upon the table, "many a time when she stood at that little window, sir, she and the babe, people stopped here to ask who they were, they were both so handsome, and so different from our country folks.

"On that very little table she left her letter; it was a long time before I could come here and feel that it was all right she should suffer so, although I know that God's ways are just; but I shall know all about it when I get to heaven; perhaps it was only 'the narrow way' to take her there—who knows? I would rather be Rose than they who brought her here; and yet," said the mild old lady, hesitatingly, "perhaps they thought they did right, but riches make us take strange views of things; it takes grace to be a rich Christian. And when I feel displeased with Mrs. Howe's heartlessness, I say, money might have turned me aside too—who knows? Good-night, sir; heaven send you sweet sleep;" and Mrs. Bond went down into her small kitchen.

And it was here—in this very room, that Rose had wept, and suffered, and wrestled with her great sorrow! On that very pillow her aching head vainly sought rest; at that window she had sat thinking—thinking—till brain and heart grew sick, and God himself seemed to have forsaken her; and down that road she had fled, like a hunted deer, with slander's cruel arrow rankling in her quivering heart!

Not on that pillow could sleep woo our weary traveler.

At the little window he sat and saw the night-shadows deepen, and only the shivering trees, as the night-wind crept through them, made answer to his low moan,

"Rose! Rose!"