be uttered slowly and with dignity. One could
repose on the initial syllable, as if to say, "Mark
well what I am saying: this is a name to be
remembered." With that, there must have been
great and distinguished Pottingers, rich men,
men of influence and acres; from these I could
at leisure select a parentage.

"Do you go by the twelve-fifteen train, sir?"
asked the waiter, creaking in upon these meditations.
"You have no time to lose, sir."

With a start, I saw it was already past twelve,
so I paid my bill with all speed, and taking my
knapsack in my hand hurried away to the train.
There was considerable confusion as I arrived,
a crush of cabs, watermen, and porters, blocked
the way, and the two currents of an arriving
and departing train struggled against and
confronted each other. Amongst those, who like
myself were bent on entering the station-house,
was a young lady in deep mourning, whose frail
proportions and delicate figure gave no prospect
of resisting the shock and conflict before her.
Seeing her so destitute of all protection, I
espoused her cause, and after a valorous effort and
much buffeting, I fought her way for her to the
ticket-window, but only in time to hear the
odious crash of a great bell, the bang of a glass
door, and the cry of a policeman on duty, "No
more tickets, gentlemen! the train is starting!"

"Oh, what shall I do!" cried she, in an accent
of intense agony, inadvertently addressing the
words to myself. "What shall I do!"

"There's another train to start at three-
forty," said I, consolingly. "I hope that waiting
will be no inconvenience to you. It is a slow
one, to be sure, stops everywhere, and only
arrives in town at two o'clock in the morning."

I heard her sob; I distinctly heard her sob
behind her thick black veil, as I said this; and
to offer what amount of comfort I could, I
added, "I, too, am disappointed, and obliged to
await the next departure, and if I can be of the
least service in any way——"

"Oh, no, sir! I am very grateful to you, but
there is nothing—I mean—there is no help for
it!" And here her voice dropped to a mere
whisper.

"I sincerely trust," said I, in an accent of
great deference and sympathy, "that the delay
may not be the cause of grave inconvenience to
you; and although a perfect stranger, if any
assistance I can offer——"

"No, sir; there is really nothing I could ask
from your kindness. It was in turning back to
bid good-bye a second time to my mother——"
Here her agitation seemed to choke her, for she
turned away, and said no more.

"Shall I fetch a cab for you?" I asked.
"Would you like to go back till the next train
starts?"

"Oh, by no means, sir! We live three miles
from Milford; and besides, I could not bear——"
Here again she broke down, but added after a
pause, "It is the first time I have been away
from home!"

With a little gentle force, I succeeded in
inducing her to enter the refreshment-room of the
station, but she would take nothing; and after
some attempts to engage her in conversation to
while away the dreary time, I perceived that it
would be a more true politeness not to obtrude
upon her sorrow; and so I lighted my cigar, and
proceeded to walk up and down the long terrace
of the station. Three trunks, or rather two and
a hat-box, kept my knapsack company on the
side of the tramway, and on these I read,
inscribed in a large hand, "Miss K. Herbert, per
steamer Ardent, Ostend." I started. Was it
not in that direction my own steps were turned?
Was not Blondel in Belgium, and was it not in
search of him that I was bent? "Oh, Fate!"
I cried; "what subtle device of thine is this?
What wily artifice art thou now engaged in? Is
this a snare, or is it an aid? Hast thou any
secret purpose in this rencontre, for with thee,
there are no chances, no accidents in thy
vicissitudes, all is prepared and fitted, like a piece of
door carpentry?" and then I fell into weaving
a story for the young lady: She was an orphan.
Her father, the curate of the little parish she
lived in, had just died, leaving herself and her
mother in direst distress. She was leaving home—
the happy home of her childhood (I saw it all
before me—cottage, and garden, and little lawn,
with its one cow and two sheep, and the small
green wicket beside the road), and she was
leaving all these to become a governess to an
upstart, mill-owning, vulgar family at Brussels.
Poor thing, how my heart bled for her! What
a life of misery lay before her! What trials of
temper and of pride! The odious children—I
know they are odious—will torture her to the
quick; and Mrs. Treddles, or whatever her
detestable name is, will lead her a terrible life from
jealousy, and she'll have to bear everything, and
cry over it in secret, remembering the once
happy time in that honeysuckled porch, where
poor papa used to read Wordsworth for them.

What a world of sorrow on every side! and
how easily might it be made otherwise. What
gigantic efforts are we for ever making for
something which we never live to enjoy. Striving
to be freer, greater, better governed, and more
lightly taxed, and all the while forgetting that
the real secret is to be on better terms with each
other; more generous, more forgiving, less
apt to take offence, or bear malice. Of mere
material goods, there is far more than we need.
The table would accommodate more than double
the guests, could we only agree to sit down in
orderly fashion; but here we have one occupying
three chairs, while another crouches on the
floor, and some even prefer smashing the furniture
to letting some more humbly born take a
place near them. I wish they would listen to me
on this theme. I wish, instead of all this social
science humbug and art-union balderdash, they
would hearken to the voice of a plain man,
saying, Are you not members of one family—
the individuals of one household? Is it not
clear to you, if you extend the kindly affections
you now reserve for the narrow circle
wherein you live to the wider area of mankind,
that, while diffusing countless blessings to others