Before Ippolita had so far recovered as to be independent of the daily airing, Mrs. Waldorf picked up a new object of interest. We say picked up, for it was a road-side acquaintance, and, as Mrs. Waldorf has since observed, one which she never would have made if she had been reading during her ride, as was her custom formerly. She had, every morning for some time, observed a poor woman drawing a basket-wagon of curious construction, in which lay a child much larger than is usually found in such vehicles. The child was pretty, and tastefully, though plainly, drest; but the whole establishment bespoke any thing but abundant means, so that Mrs. Waldorf was puzzled to make out the character of the group. The woman had not the air of a servant, and yet the child did not look as if it could be her child. In short, after seeing the same thing a dozen times, Mrs. Waldorf’s curiosity was a good deal excited. She did not, however, venture to make any inquiries until it so chanced that, in the very green lane we have spoken of—the favorite resort of the grateful Ippolita—they found the poor woman, with the child fainting in her arms. Grief and anxiety were painted on her honest face, and she was so absorbed in her efforts for the recovery of the child that she scarcely answered Mrs. Waldorf’s sympathizing inquiries. “Oh don’t trouble yourself, ma’am! It is nothing new! She’s this way very often. It’s the hoopin’-cough, ma’am; and I’m afeard it’ll be the death of her, poor lamb! in spite of all we can do!” And she tossed the child in the air, and fanned its face till the breath returned. “Is it your own?” asked Mrs. Waldorf. “No indeed, ma’am! mine are other guess lookin’ children, thank God! This dear babe’s mother is a delicate young lady that lives neighbor to me, as has a sick husband that she can’t leave. I’m a washerwoman, ma’am, if you please, and I have to go quite away down town every day almost, and so I take this poor thing in my basket—it’s large enough, you see—and so gives her a turn in the open air, ’cause the doctor says it’s the open air, if any thing, that’ll do her good.” “You are very good,” said Mrs. Waldorf, who had listened in a kind of reverie, her thoughts reverting to her lonely rides. “Oh no, ma’am! it’s far from good I am! The Lord knows that! But a little bit of neighborly kindness like that, is what the poor often does for one another, _and don’t think any thing of it, neither_! To be sure this babe’s mother isn’t the likes of me, ma’am, but she’s far worse off than she has been. Her husband is what they call an accountant—a kind of clerk, like; and he can’t get no employ, and I think it’s breakin’ his heart pretty fast.” Here Mrs. Waldorf fairly burst into tears. “Tell me where you live,” she said, “and say nothing to this lady you speak of, but come to me to-morrow, will you?” and she put a card into the poor woman’s hand. “Surely I will, ma’am,” said the washerwoman, “and it’s a kind heart you have!”