Rosalie seated herself by the window, and looked out upon the new country. From the river, and from the grove that crowned the bluff on which the village was situated, the country stretched eastward, out and out—a high, level, and limitless prairie, its flat and green monotony broken, at wide intervals, by groves similar to this which surrounded S——, and relieved by countless millions of wild flowers, whose rich, gorgeous, and brilliant hues surpassed anything the observer had ever seen before. “What is that splendid scarlet flower that grows so tall, and is as abundant on the prairie as clover in our own fields?” inquired Rosalie. “I reckon you are talking about the prairie pink; but I haven’t much time, myself, to take notice of flowers—’specially wild weeds,” replied the landlady, rattling the dishes and tea-cups, and bustling about between the cooking-stove, the table, and the cupboard. “Are you not a Marylander?” asked Rosalie. “Yes,” said the woman. “How did you know?” “By your speech.” Just at this moment the cry of a child commenced in an adjoining room, and continued during the whole of the hostess’s morning work. She set aside the table, and began to sweep the room, raising a great dust from the dried and pulverized mud left by the bachelors’ shoes. Rosalie thoughtlessly threw her pocket-handkerchief over her head, to protect her hair from the dust—thoughtlessly, for else she might have guessed it would displease the touchy pride of the hard-working pioneer woman. “You don’t like the dust—maybe you never saw a broom?” she asked, looking somewhat contemptuously at the young lady’s delicate person. “Oh! yes, I have,” said Rosalie, gently, “and _used_ a broom, too; but I always sprinkle the floor, and tie a handkerchief over my head before sweeping.” “And what do you take all that trouble for?” “Because I dislike the dust to settle on my hair.” “Ha! ha! ha! You’ll get out of that, if you _settle_ in these parts,” laughed the woman—not ill-naturedly this time—resuming her broom, and continuing her sweeping to its completion. Then she fired up the cooking-stove afresh; and while it was drawing, and roaring, and heating the room to suffocation in this sultry summer weather, she wiped down the chairs with her apron, and finally went into the next chamber and brought out her baby which was still squalling at the top of his voice. Giving him a piece of bread, she sat him in the cradle and went about her work, notwithstanding that the child threw away the bread, and was screaming louder than ever. Rosalie got up and lifted the babe, and took him to the window, where she sat down with him, and soon soothed his temper. The over-worked mother looked pleased, but said, deprecatingly—