nd thriving
homesteads, it must be confessed that to the eye of the traveller wild
mountain scenery has a far stronger attraction; and insensibly, as the
train speeds on through the now level country, veiled in a thin,
drizzling, mist-like rain, I find my gaze and my thoughts coming back
from the outside world, and resting once more on my co-inmates of the
car.

Not far from me sits a beautiful young girl, fair haired and blue eyed,
and of a peculiarly interesting and lady-like appearance. She has a look
of bright intelligence; and on her lap lies a book, the title of which I
can read from here: 'English Literature.' But she is deaf and dumb, as
is plainly betokened by the rapid, chirological conversation going on
between her and a young man, evidently her brother, who sits beside her.
Behind them is seated an elderly lady, who seems to have charge of her,
and with whom she occasionally converses in writing.

The young man is not, like her, deprived of the organs of speech; but
his proficiency in the finger-language is perfectly marvellous. It
surpasses even her own in rapidity of movement and graceful ease. It is
most interesting to watch them, as, their eyes glancing from hand to
face, they carry on their silent conversation; the dumb girl
occasionally bursting into a hearty laugh, at some remark of her
companion. Nothing could exceed the devoted and tender attention of the
brother. Whenever any object worthy of notice in the scenery presented
itself, he would touch her lightly on the shoulder to attract attention,
and then with a few rapid movements of his fingers, direct her eyes to
it, and give an explanation of it. If she required refreshment, he
would hurry from the car, and hurry back again, with art anxious, eager
look, as if he feared something might have befallen her in his absence.
She seemed to repose implicit confidence in him; and well was he worthy
of it. Heaven's blessing rest upon you, noble young man! for your
earnest devotion to that afflicted one.

At one place, where the cars stopped, I witnessed an affecting scene--a
soldier parting from his children. Two young girls, the one about
fifteen, the other some years younger, stood in the door of the station
room, their faces swoln and discolored with weeping. Their mother, pale
and sad, stood near them; while the father, a fine looking,
strongly-built man of forty, in the uniform of an artilleryman, went
forward to see to the stowage of his knapsack