"'Most there, driver?" thundered out a red-faced man, as he thrust his frowsy head out of the stage-coach window.

"'Most there? Sahara is nothing to this sand-hill; phew! touch up yer hosses, can't you? I'm perspiring like an eel in a frying-pan."

"So are my horses," answered the driver, sulkily, "I can't run them up hill, this weather, to please you."

It was hot. The dust-begrimed leaves by the roadside hung limp and motionless: the cattle lay with protruding tongues under the broad tree shadows; not a single friendly cloud obscured the fierce brightness of the sun-rays, while the locust shrilly piped his simoom song in triumph.

"In-fern-al!" growled the fat man on the back seat, as he wiped his rubicund face with a soiled cotton handkerchief.

"Swearing will not make thee any cooler, friend," quietly remarked a drab bonnet by his side.

"Did thee ever try it, ma'am?" asked the irritated Falstaff, mimicking her tone, "'cause if thee hasn't, thee is not qualified to judge on that point."

"Did thee ever roll down that precipice?" asked the drab bonnet, "yet thee knows if thee should it would certainly harm thee."

"Keen," muttered the fat man to a young lady who sat near him, as a suppressed titter ran round the coach. "These women always trip up a man in an argument, not by any fair play either, but by some such metaphorical twist as that now. Well—nature gives strength to us, cunning to them; I suppose she knows what she is about. Women are necessary evils; if we can not get along with them, we certainly can not without them; I suppose it is all right;" and he looked for a reply in the face of the young lady whom he had addressed.

She seemed not to have heard any thing which had passed; her large, dark eyes were bent upon an infant who lay asleep on her lap, a very cupid for grace and beauty. The child could scarcely have been her own, for she could not have numbered more than sixteen summers; and yet there was the same full red lip, the same straight nose, and the same long curved lashes. The intense heat which had coarsened the features of her companions served only to have heightened the beauty of the young girl; deepening the rose on her lip and cheek, and moistening her tresses till they curled round her open brow like vine tendrils.

"This is the house miss," said the driver, throwing open the door, and looking in. "This is old Ma'am Bond's, miss."

The young girl colored slightly, and roused the little sleeper on her lap, who opened his large brown eyes, and yawned just enough to show off two little snowy teeth, and a very bewitching dimple, and then cuddled his little head into the girl's neck as the driver held out his arms to take him.

The driver deposited his charge and their scanty baggage, on the front stoop of the old wooden house, and remounting his box, gave his horses' ears a professional touch with his long whiplash. Turning to give his ex-passengers a parting glance, he said:

"Wonder if that girl is the child's mother? Can't be, though," said he, still gazing at her slight figure; "she's nothing but a child herself. That boy is a beauty, any how, shouldn't mind owning him myself. I'm beat if any parson could call him totally depraved. That girl can't be his mother, though—she's too young."

Yes, young in years; but what is the dial's finger to those who live years in a lightning moment, or to whom an hour may be the tortoise creep of a century?

Yes, young in years; the face may be smooth and fair, while the heart is wrinkled; the eye may be bright, though the fire which feeds it is drying up the life-blood.

Yes, young in years; but old in sorrow—a child, and yet a woman!—a mother, but the world said, not a wife.

Rat—tat—the dilapidated brass knocker is as old as its mistress. The young girl draws a glove from her small hand, and applies her knuckles to the sun-blistered door. Old Mrs. Bond toddles to the threshhold. With what a stony look the stranger meets her curious gaze! With what a firm step she crosses the threshhold; as if, child-mother as she was, she had rights that must not be trampled on. But see, her eye moistens, and her lip quivers. Harshness she was prepared for—kindness she knows not how to bear.

"You must be very weary," said good Mrs. Bond to Rose, as she held out her matronly arms for little Charley. "Poor little fellow!" and she held a glass of cold spring water to his parched lips; "how pleasant he is; and the weather so warm too."

"Charley is a good boy," said the young mother, pushing back the moist curls from his temples, with a sad pride.

"It is a very pleasant country through which you passed to-day," said Mrs. Bond, "though mayhap you were too weary to look at it."

"Is it?" answered Rose, languidly.

"Perhaps you would like to lie down," suggested the old lady, kindly; "and your little room is quite ready. Your aunt, Mrs. Howe, sent us word you would be here to-day."

The old stony look came back to Rose's face, and she stepped like a young queen, as she tossed the boy carelessly over her shoulder, and followed the old lady up the narrow stairs to her own room.

"Mrs. Howe was here yesterday in her carriage," said Mrs. Bond. "She left this letter for you," handing it to Rose as she spoke. "Here are water and towels, if you would like to bathe the little fellow. We have no closets, but I have driven up some nails for your clothes. I hope you will be comfortable. Shall I close the blinds for you?"

"No, thank you," said Rose; "I am obliged to you; it is very comfor—" but the word died upon her lips, and she stooped over Charley to conceal the rebellious tears, as Mrs. Bond left the room.

Yes, every thing was neat and clean—but so bare and desolate. The old-fashioned windows were mere port-holes, and so high that as Rose sat she could only see the blue sky, and the tops of the waving trees. There was a yellow wash-stand, a bed, a table, and two chairs. Colored engravings of Joan of Arc and Mary Queen of Scots habited alike, hung in wooden frames on the wall. The floor was uncarpeted, and huge beams crossed the ceiling.

As Rose looked about her, she drew a long weary breath, and stretched out her arms, as if imploring some invisible aid. The babe crowed and smiled; the trail of the serpent was not in his Eden.

Untying her bonnet, Rose broke the seal of the letter in her hand, and read as follows:

"You must be aware that you have built up a wall between yourself and the virtuous of your own sex; you must know that you have no claim upon the love or sympathy of any such. I presume, like others of your class, you excuse your sin to yourself, and are quite ready to meet me, your only relative, whom you have disgraced, with a plausible story of your marriage. It is quite useless. I shall never associate with you. Still I am willing to provide you a shelter with Mrs. Bond for two months, till your child (it is a great pity it lived) is that much older. I shall pay but a small sum for your board, as I expect you to do your own washing and the child's, and assist Mrs. Bond in the house work. You are a sad disgrace to us. My husband is just nominated for mayor. I have given orders to Mrs. Bond and some of the neighbors to watch you closely. If you walk out alone, or receive visitors, my allowance is at once withdrawn. One would think, however, you would have little desire to show yourself. I hope you will repent of the disgrace you have brought upon us.

Dolly Howe."

Rose sprung up and paced the chamber floor. The veins in her temples swelled almost to bursting. Her large dark eyes flashed, and her teeth closed over her full red lip till the blood almost started, and tearing the letter into pieces, she trampled it under foot. The babe crept smiling after, picking up the bits as they fell from her hand. With a quick grasp she wrenched them from his tiny hand, trampling them again under foot. Then, as the boy uttered a low, grieved cry, she snatched him to her breast, covered him with kisses, and throwing herself upon the bed, burst into a long and passionate fit of weeping.

And thus they sobbed themselves to sleep, the child and the child mother, pure alike in His eyes who judgeth not by outward appearance, and to whom the secrets of all hearts are known.