Need I tell you, dear girls, that a barrier seemed to rise up between my companion and myself, as I heard these unwomanly, nay, I may say, inhuman words? Only a short time before, the girl had been moved to tears as she spoke of the loving devotion of which she had been an object, both as a child and from her youth up. Yet her memories of her own home life and of the parents she mourned, had not awakened in her cold heart one spark of tenderness for the helpless little creatures who are so dependent on those around them. A truly feminine nature, with its motherly instincts fostered as they ought to be, instead of being crushed down and stifled, regards every child with tenderness, and would make the surroundings of all the little ones brighter, purer, and holier if it were possible to do so. It happened on that same journey that a comely Scotchwoman got into our carriage at a country station. At the door she held out one of the loveliest year-old babies I ever saw, and addressing my companion, said, “Here, tak the bairn, please, whiles I lift in the others,” for there were two more youngsters on the platform just a step above each other in size. My companion fairly shrank into her corner and kept her hands firmly clasped, whilst her face expressed disgust and vexation at the unceremonious request. The mother’s astonishment was almost ludicrous, but I promptly said, “Give me the bairn. I’m used to bairns, you see, and this lady is not.” It was a delight to hold the bonny smiling darling in my arms. Her beautiful clothing and the pretty neat garments of the elder children were eloquent of loving care. And the mother was eloquent too about the object of the half-hour’s journey which was to show the children to “my ain guid mither, who is just wearyin’ for a look at them,” I was told. I heard about five older ones at home, and how they had to go, two at a time and the baby, to see the grandmother, with many particulars which brought this comparatively young mother into fullest sympathy with me, the old one. I was quite sorry to give up my pretty charge when parting time came. Sorry, too, that my other travelling companion, who sat silent in her corner with averted eyes, could not appreciate the charms of childhood, or care to impress on her memory the beautiful picture of motherly self-devotion and industry furnished by that sample batch from the flock of eight. How each bright healthy face, each spotless tasteful garment would appeal to the grandmother! How glad and proud she would be to see the fruits of her own training, as she looked at her matronly daughter and those “bonny bairns” of another generation!