We had a memorable evening in our little parlour that night.  ’Twas like being home again, my mother said—­thereby admitting inferentially the homesickness she had refused to confess directly.  The chief piece of personal news the visitors brought was that the Rev. Mr. Cornelius had taken a wife, and moved into our old house, which ’twas pleasant to know was in such friendly hands; and that the couple considered it their particular mission to enliven the hours of Mr. and Mrs. Faringfield, with whom they spent half their time.

Philip’s first month in England was spent in exploring London, sometimes with me, sometimes alone, for ’tis needless to say in whose society I chose to pass much of my time.  What sights he saw; what unlikely corners he sought out because some poet had been born, or died, or drunk wine there; what streets he roamed:  I am sure I never could tell.  I know that all the time he kept eyes alert for a certain face, ears keen for a certain name; but neither in the streets, nor at the shops, nor in the parks, nor at the play, did he catch a glimpse of Margaret; nor in the coffee-house, or tavern, or gaming-place, or in the region of the clubs, did he hear a chance mention of the name of Falconer.  And so, presently, we set about making the tour he had spoken of.

There was a poor family of Long Island loyalists named Doughty, that had settled in the seacoast town of Hastings in Sussex, in order that they might follow the fisheries, which had been their means of livelihood at home.  Considering that a short residence in the more mild and sunny climate of the Channel might be a pleasant change for my mother, and not disagreeable to Fanny, we arranged that, during the absence of Phil and me, we should close our cottage, and the ladies should board with these worthy though humble people, who would afford them all needful masculine protection.  Having seen them comfortably established, we set forth upon our travels.

We visited the principal towns and historic places of England and Scotland, Philip having a particular interest in Northamptonshire, where his father’s line sprang from (Sir Ralph Winwood having been a worthy of some eminence in the reigns of Elizabeth and James),[10] and in Edinburgh, the native place of his mother.  Cathedrals, churches, universities, castles, tombs of great folk, battle-fields—­’twould fill a book to describe all the things and places we saw; most of which Phil knew more about than the people did who dwelt by them.  From England we crossed to France, spent a fortnight in Paris, went to Rheims, thence to Strasburg, thence to Frankfort; came down the Rhine, and passed through parts of Belgium and Holland before taking vessel at Amsterdam for London.  “I must leave Italy, the other German states, and the rest till another time,” said Philip.  It seemed as if we had been gone years instead of months, when at last we were all home again in our cottage at Hampstead.