The world seemed desolate that night as we sat beside our dying campfire discussing the situation. The mournful call of some night bird through the vast silence waked melancholy echoes in my lonely heart. The wind, moaning across the barren plains, spoke of darkness, inchoate, overwhelming. The stars seemed to stare coldly down upon the whirling mote to which we poor humans cling so doggedly. A gleam from a lighted window of the farmhouse only added to my feeling of isolation. I visioned the thousands of family groups gathered round the evening lamps, enjoying the cosy comforts of home, the sense of peace and security that springs from a recognised place in society, the feeling of love and protection, the intimate companionship, and opportunity for service,—the mother with her sewing, the father with magazine or paper, the children with school books or toys—all unwitting, unheeding, uncaring, utterly indifferent to the fate of the thousands who roam the highways even as we, having no place to lay their heads. These, outcast, abandoned, wretched, are exiles from a land of plenty through no fault of their own—their only roof, the threatening vault of heaven, their only couch, the bare cold ground, their evening lamp some solitary campfire. Their naked souls shudder in the relentless blast of endless ostracism. Our little hoard of silver was running low. We knew by experience that no work was to be had in this inhospitable land. Our only hope lay in pressing forward. Early next morning we cooked a meagre breakfast, packed such articles as were worth saving into two bundles, swung these on our shoulders and were off. We had covered perhaps eight miles and Dan was beginning to complain of his ankle when in the distance we sighted a little settlement strung out along the railroad track. As we approached, I took both bundles and turned toward the railroad station to wait while Dan searched for work. As I crossed the right-of-way my attention was attracted by a man seated on the ground, his back against a telegraph pole. As I walked past, he raised his hat and spoke. “I would advise you to stay away from the depot, madam. The station agent is having a little dispute with a couple of drunken cowboys. It is scarcely the place for a lady.” “It is kind of you to warn me,” I replied. “It was my intention to wait there for my husband, but we can scarcely miss one another in this town.” The stranger sprang to his feet. “Permit me to offer you my telegraph pole,” he exclaimed with a winning smile. Lifting one of the blanket rolls, he placed it for a seat, and as I settled myself, sank down on the other bundle and entered into conversation.