“There, didn’t I tell you!” he excitedly exclaimed to his wife, as he rushed down the stairs--he hadn’t told his wife anything, just bottled up his fears in his own bosom and let them ferment, but that made no difference--“Didn’t I tell you!” and he hastily unlocked and opened the door. No one there! He looked up the street and down the street. Nothing but a clothes-basket, covered over with a threadbare shawl, which evidently a long time ago had been a costly one. Mr. Hobbs expected a messenger with bad news and Mr. Hobbs was disappointed, in fact was mad; and he snatched that shawl from the basket, staggered against the door, and a voice, like unto that of a young and lusty bull, went up the stairway where Mrs. Hobbs stood peering over the banisters: “Maria, for God’s sake come quick! There’s something awful happened! Quick, will you!” Mrs. Hobbs was not very brave, but curiosity often reinforces courage; so the good lady came down the stairs two steps at a time, and stood by the side of her liege, who had got his breath by this time and stood peering over the basket. And there they stood together, all in white, with bare feet, on the front porch, and nearly broad daylight. In the basket, all wrapped up in dainty flannel, smiling, cooing and kicking up its heels, lay a baby--well, perhaps two months old, and on a card written with pencil were these words: “_God knows._” Mr. and Mrs. Hobbs had no children, and they each looked upon this as a gift from providence--basket and all. They cared for the waif as their own child, and if their reward does not come in this life, I am sure it will in another. “Her name shall be Aspasia Hobbs, for I always said my first girl (Mr. and Mrs. Hobbs had been married five years, and had no children, but the babies were already named; which, I am told, is the usual custom) should be named Aspasia, after your mother, dear,” said Mrs. Hobbs. And Aspasia Hobbs it was, and is yet: and I am Aspasia Hobbs: and Mr. and Mrs. Hobbs are the only parents I have ever known. I am now an old maid, aged thirty-seven (I must tell the truth). I am homely and angular, and can pass along the street without a man turning to look at me. From five years’ constant pounding on a caligraph my hands have grown large and my knuckles and the ends of my fingers are like knobs. I can walk twenty miles a day, or ride a wheel fifty. The bishop of Western New York, in a sermon preached recently, said riding bicycles is “unladylike” (and so is good health for that matter)--but if the good bishop would lay aside prejudice and robe and mount a safety, he could still show men the right way as well as now--possibly better, who knows?