An Englishwoman's Home

days since I came back-no, not home, only back. We have no home any

ever, that no adequate presentment of what we were doing could be offered in any cablegram, and that we must ask you to wait for another letter. Himself even said, he would write it, but you know how he lives, and what stacks of unanswered ones lie in his pigeon-holes. I heard him say in an exasperated moment, that his private and particular hell would be a place where

d on the sixth we wired Himself that we were coming back and that he must find a place for us. We knew that he was still sleeping on

nd he was hanging on desperately to the remnant of his treasure house-though forbidden by official orders to touch anyth

have done for us at this time; and they were only two out of many. Effie remained only long enough to collect her kit and go back to her beloved Camiers-of course the house couldn't mean as much to her; and for the time being she is detached from us and her usu

incipally, is left the

her quarters. They all felt that Himself must have quarters as near as possible to the old

opposite St. Andrew's Church. You will particularly remember it because you asked me what style of arch

round the corner from the North House, less than two minutes' walk. It is very strange and rather awful, I find, to live with other people's t

in any house I have ever seen or heard

beds are beautiful, and it is such a relief to hav

y people were about, and Himself was safely out of the way, I stole round. There was a policeman at the gate, for there were heaps of things that could easily be removed by predatory hands. Wooden barr

he cedar tree, half of which was torn away, showing a hideous scar all over its beautiful body, I could not help seeing. I gripped myself tight, and ran, just ran up the sloping lawn across the terrace, and right in. I don't know how I can describe it. I feel as if I must not even try. Nothing had been touched. It was sealed, so to speak, by Government orders. A few things had been covered up to prevent the rain damaging them. It was just awful, indescribable, heartrending. The dining room was pitch dark, but a candle standing on the seat of a broken chair with matches beside it invited me to inspection. I can't describe what I saw, and there seemed to be a faint odour of sulphur and brimstone redolent of the bottomless pit. The drawing room had suffered least, though part of the ceiling had fallen on

ld Worcester, my Lowestoft. It is all very awful. But these are only things. They don't at this moment matte

tries stood revealed. I understand, and I know why our sweet dignified old Belgian re