Through All His Busy
Years That Picture Never Grew Less Beautiful, Never Ceased Its
Call, And At Last, Possessed Of Sufficient Capital To Yield
Him A Modest Income For The Rest Of His Life, He Came Home.
What He Was Going To Do In England He Did Not Consider.
He
only knew that until he had satisfied the chief desire of his
heart and had looked upon the original of the picture he had
borne so long in his mind he could not rest nor make any plans
for the future.
He came first to London and found, on examining the map of
Hampshire, that the village of Thorpe (I will call it), where
he was born, is three miles from the nearest station, in the
southern part of the county. Undoubtedly it was Thorpe; that
was one of the few names of places his father had mentioned
which remained in his memory always associated with that vivid
image of the farm in his mind. To Thorpe he accordingly went
- as pretty a rustic village as he had hoped to find it. He
took a room at the inn and went out for a long walk - "just to
see the place," he said to the landlord. He would make no
inquiries; he would find his home for himself; how could he
fail to recognize it? But he walked for hours in a widening
circle and saw no farm or other house, and no ground that
corresponded to the picture in his brain.
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