e lighted up with a smile of
peculiar beauty and sweetness.

The woman was of middle size, with fair hair, inclining towards auburn,
blue eyes, and a clear red and white complexion. Her expression was
one of habitual sweetness and good-humor, while a continual half-smile
played about her rosy mouth. She was plump, good-natured, and
cozy,--altogether a most lovable and delicious woman.

This pair, with their bright-looking children, occupied two seats
near the stove, and were in constant pleasant converse, save when an
occasional anxious and impatient shadow flitted across the face of
the husband and father. On the rack over their heads reposed a small
travelling-bag, which the day before had been filled with luncheon for
the children. Upon its bottom was painted in small white letters the
name, "Samson Newell."

It was, indeed, the long-lost son, returning on this day to answer, so
much as in him lay, the prayers repeated for fifteen years by his father
and mother,--returning to see his former home once more, and here,
nearly on the threshold, stopped by a snow-storm almost unprecedented at
that season. There was occasional bitterness in his impatience at the
wearying detention, but he controlled it as well as he was able.

During the night the passengers had been quiet and uncomplaining. Wood
taken from the tenders of the two locomotives in small quantities, and,
when the engineers stopped the supplies in that quarter, rails torn from
neighboring fences and broken up for firewood, kept them warm; but
after the day had dawned, when the little treasures of luncheon were
exhausted, and all began to feel the real pangs of hunger, things
assumed a more serious aspect. Children in all the cars were crying for
breakfast, and even the older passengers began to feel cross and jaded.

One pleasant fellow, with an apparently inexhaustible flask of whiskey
in his pocket, and good-humor oozing from every pore of his jolly
countenance, passed from car to car, retailing a hundred jokes to every
fresh batch of listeners. But presently the passengers began to tire of
his witticisms, and one after another "poohed" and "pshawed" at him as
he approached. Then with infinite good-nature and philosophy he retired
to one of the saloons and peacefully fell asleep.

Almost equally amusing was a wizened, bent, and thin old man, draped
from head to foot in coarse butternut-colored homespun, and called "Old
Woollen" by the funny fellow, who