At Minden we stop to lunch. The whole train pushes and jostles into the
refreshment-room, and, in ten galloping minutes, we devour three filthy
_plats_; a nauseous potage, a terrible dish of sickly veal, and a ragged
Braten. Then a rush and tumble off again.

The day rolls past, dustily, samely, wearily. There have been flying
thunder-storms--lightning-flashes past the windows. I hide my face in my
dusty gloves to avoid seeing the quick red forks, and leave a smear on
each grimy cheek. Every moment, I am a rape-field--a corn-field, a
bean-field, farther from Barbara, farther from the Brat, farther from
the jackdaw.

"This is rather a long day for you, child!" says Sir Roger, kindly,
perceiving, I suppose, the joviality of the expression with which I am
eying the German landscape. "The most tedious railway-journey you ever
took, I suppose?"

"Yes," reply I, "far! It seems like three Sundays rolled into one, does
not it? What time is it now?"

He takes out his watch and looks.

"Twenty past five."

"_Seven_ hours more!" say I, with a burst of desperateness.

"I am so sorry for you, Nancy! what can one do for you?" says my
husband, looking thoroughly discomfited, concerned, and helpless. "Would
you care to have a book?"

"I cannot read in a train," reply I, dolorously, "it makes me _sick_!"
Then feeling rather ashamed of my peevishness--"Never mind me!" I say,
with a dusty smile; "I am quite happy! I--I--like looking out."

The day falls, the night comes. On, on, on! There is a bit of
looking-glass opposite me. I can no longer see any thing outside. I have
to sit staring at my own plain, grimed, bored face. In a sudden fury, I
draw the little red silk curtain across my own image. Thank God! I can
no longer see myself. Sir Roger ceases to try his eyes with the print of
the _Westminster_, and closes it.

"I wonder," say I, pouring some eau-de-cologne on my
pocket-handkerchief, and trying to cleanse my face therewith, but only
succeeding in making it a muddy instead of a dusty smudge--"I wonder
whether we shall meet any one we know at Dresden?"

"I should not wonder," replies Sir Roger, cheerfully.

"Is the Hotel de Saxe the place where most English go?" inquire I,
anxiously. "Ah, you do not know! I must ask Schmidt."

"Yes, do."

"I hope we shall," say I, straining my eyes to make out the objects in
the dark outside. "We have been very unlucky so far, have not we?"

"Are you so anxious to meet people? ar