speak no word, but huddle closer together with a dumb sympathy that is more eloquent than words. We knew not whence they had come nor whither they were going; they were two lonely women, and by their talk alone in the world, mere waifs and strays of humanity--drifting, drifting on the tide of life, till they are cast upon that silent shore where the tide neither ebbs nor flows. If the engine gave an extra shriek or whistle they cast silent, inquiring glances round like frightened animals, but never spoke a word. At meal time they turned aside and ate surreptitiously from their baskets, nibbling slyly like mice at a cheese. The fierce-looking gentleman who had first attracted our attention was evidently in a hurry to get on; he pelted the guard with questions whenever he caught sight of him: “How far were we from this place?” “When should we get to that?” “How slowly we were going. I could race the engine and win,” he adds contemptuously; then he fidgeted in his seat, and fretted and fumed; he scowled at everybody, and seemed absolutely to swell with his own importance. He pulled out a big watch as noisy and fussy as himself; it looked so brazen and ticked so loud as though nothing in this world was going but itself--as though indeed it had nothing at all to do with time, but was rather in a hurry to get ahead of it, when it should have been minding its own business, done its duty, and ticked the solemn flight of the passing hours. We turn our backs upon this pompous individual, and our interest becomes absorbed in these two poor women, from whom we gather an outline of their history. It is a simple one: a story of trials and struggles, of tangles, of failures, and want and sorrow, of life and death; such as may be written of so many of the human family who reap only thorns and thistles in this world; but in the next who knows what roses may for them be blooming! Luckily for all such labourers, hope, like a will-o’-the-wisp, lights the distant shadows and dances before them, now here, now there, till they reach their journey’s end and drop unnoticed into nameless graves. Presently we cross a narrow stream or river, and learn that we have left the rolling lands of Georgia behind and are now in Florida. We look round as though we expected a sudden transformation scene, but there is no violent change. Nature is full of surprises, but here in these latitudes she moves with a slow, subtle grace, in accordance with the soft sunshine, and warm, soft air of these semi-tropical regions, where nothing is in a hurry, and even the streams and rivers flow in a tender, languid ripple. She is still changing the expression of her countenance, but slowly; her white, gleaming sands flash more and more frequently in our eyes. We are on the rough, ragged edge of Florida; it is flat and sandy with a scanty growth of straggling yellow pines and stunted palmettoes, which seem cowering down trying to hide themselves from the sight of the sun.