There were three more days—"another lovely day," when my husband came to fetch me; and yet "another lovely day, slightly foggy," when we took him to Maidstone to show him the sights that I had seen; and one that was "still lovely, after the usual foggy dawn," which was November the 4th, and our last in Kent.
But these were days when C.'s thoughts and mine were not concentrated upon the pleasures and businesses in hand—when the blue plumbago in my bedroom was not needed for any purpose but to look lovely against the wall. November was the month of departure. In another fortnight I was to be upon the sea. Towards the sea and the south my face was set, and she knew what it was I looked for. All the charms of Kent in the golden weather could not now deflect my gaze. England is Home indeed to the English-born. The dear world in every part is Home to the spirit that loves life and freedom, and discerns no frontiers between nation and nation, nor barriers between man and man. But there is one wee spot, one house amongst the countless millions of human dwellings—no matter in what hole or corner you have tucked it—that is the only place on earth, or in the universe for that matter, where your heart, if it be a mother's heart, can rest.