carriage where there was a woman with her daughter, a girl of about
twenty, who seemed uneasy and distressed. Soon afterwards, when a
collector was looking at our tickets, I called out that mine was for
Dublin, and as soon as he got out the woman came over to me.

'Are you going to Dublin?' she said.

I told her I was.

'Well,' she went on, 'here is my daughter going there too; and maybe
you'd look after her, for I'm getting down at the next station. She
is going up to a hospital for some little complaint in her ear, and
she has never travelled before, so that she's lonesome in her mind.'

I told her I would do what I could, and at the next station I was
left alone with my charge, and one other passenger, a returned
American girl, who was on her way to Mallow, to get the train for
Queenstown. When her mother was lost sight of the young girl broke
out into tears, and the returned American and myself had trouble to
quiet her.

'Look at me,' said the American. 'I'm going off for ten years to
America, all by myself, and I don't care a rap.'

When the girl got quiet again, the returned American talked to me
about scenery and politics and the arts--she had been seen off by
her sisters in bare feet, with shawls over their heads--and the
life of women in America.

At several stations girls and boys thronged in to get places for