I was witness the other day of what I had only heard of before--a dog travelling by rail on his own account. I got into the train at Uxbridge Road, and, the compartment being vacant, took up the seat which I now prefer--the corner seat at the entrance with the back to the engine. Presently a whole crowd of ladies got in, and with them a dog, which I supposed to belong to them. All the ladies except one got out at Addison Road, and then the dog slunk across the carriage to just under my seat. I asked my remaining fellow-passenger whether the dog was hers; she said "No." No one got in before she herself got out at South Kensington, where the dog remained perfectly quiet, but at Sloane Square a man was let in, and out rushed the dog, the door actually grazing his sides. Had he not taken up the precise place he did, he must have been shut in or crushed. "That dog is a stowaway," I observed to the porter who had opened the door. "I suppose he is," the man answered. The dog was making the best of his way to the stairs. Clearly the dog meant to get out at that particular station (he had had ample opportunity of getting out both at Addison Road and South Kensington), and had, as soon as he could, taken up the best position for doing so. How did he recognise the Sloane Square Station, for he had had only those two opportunities of glancing out? It seems to me it could only have been by counting the stations, in which case he must be able to reckon up to five. The dog was a very ordinary London cur, white and tan, of a greatly mixed Scotch terrier stock, the long muzzle showing a greyhound cross. He was thin, and apparently conscious of breaking the law, hiding out of sight, and slinking along with his tail between his legs, and altogether not worth stealing. I suppose that he had been transferred to a new home which had proved uncongenial, and was slipping away, in fear and trembling, to his old quarters. J. M. L. _EMOTION AND SENTIMENT IN DOGS._ A DOG'S REMORSE. [_Sept. 1, 1883._]