He was at the railway station with the dawn of the next day, busily engaged sketching various points. By-and-by, as the emigrants began to arrive, he made hurried sketches of faces and costumes, and in the course of an hour or two he stood there, fully realising all the inspiration which had come upon him in the highway: his broad elastic sympathies had been excited to the full, and he stood watching the train that had gone, almost with tears in his eyes--stood amidst numerous little affecting groups of men and women, and shared their sorrows. The train which had gone was gaily decorated with ribbons, and had quite a holiday appearance; the passengers had been singing some well-known ballad; and the friends left behind had cheered them. People must do something to keep down that choking sensation which the strongest have felt at parting, and songs and cheering were capital resources for “driving dull care away,” on the occasion of a hundred poor families seeking the means of existence in a distant land. Great battles have no more moving incidents than those social catastrophes which fall now and then upon manufacturing districts, bringing all the ills of poverty and starvation, and forced idleness upon poor, uneducated, improvident people. At these times instances enough of self-sacrifice and love crop up amongst them to make up for all the stories of selfishness and brutality that come out in their prosperity. Arthur Phillips did not fail to take in the whole of that scene at the railway station: he did not forget those men and women with the blanched cheeks and tearful eyes. To them the parting could not be otherwise than painfully significant. It was a separation more fruitful of grief and apprehension than the common parting of friends. It was a forced exile, which those left behind might soon be compelled to follow--a flying from one ill to another, between which those left behind stood wavering, with little ones around them looking up for comfort and finding none. The artist bent himself to his work from that very day. At night he completed his various sketches and studied his subject, and in the day he painted from early morn to evening--painted for very life--painted for love, and money, and fame, and sympathy. It was striking out in a new line, but he had no fear of the result. In less than a month the picture began to assume form and character; never had artist worked with more rapidity and with more earnestness of purpose. The work had never flagged--it had gone on day by day without interruption or change of plan. The subject was so thoroughly mapped out in the artist’s mind, that time alone stood between him and its completion. The figures were few but full of character, and the last touch was given to the whole on that morning when Mr. Tallant died.