On the train bound for Dublin was a little old woman travelling third class like myself, who scraped an acquaintance at once in order to tell me of the disturbed state of the country. She emphasized everything with a wave of her poor worn gloves and a decided nod of her bonnet. "They are idle you know, they are lazy, they are improvident. They are not content in the station in which it has pleased God to place them. I know all about these people. They are turbulent, they are rebellious; they want to get their good, kind landlords out of the country, and to seize on their property. It is horrid you know, horrid!" and the little old lady waved her gloves in the air. "If they had a proper amount of religion they would be content to labor in their own station. I am content with mine, why not they with theirs? You understand that," appealing to me. "Have you a small farm?" I enquired. "Indeed I have not," said the little old lady with the greatest disgust, "I live on my money." It was quite evident I had offended her, for she froze into silence. As I left the train at Tandragee she laid her faded glove on my arm and whispered, "It is their duty to be content in their own station, is it not?" "If they cannot do any better," I whispered back. "They cannot," said the little old lady sinking back on her seat triumphantly. It is rather unhandy, that the names of the stations are called out by a person on the platform outside the cars, instead of by a conductor inside. The manufacturing town of Gilford is a pretty, clean, neat, little place clustered round the mills and the big house, like the old feudal retainers round the castle. Here, as in Belfast, a certain amount of distress must exist, for the mills are not running full time.