at some be dead and some
Be gone, and, oh, the place is dumb,
How she do wish wi' useless tears
To have again about her ears
The voices that be gone!"

We have passed Cologne; have passed Brussels; have passed Calais and
Dover; have passed London; we are drawing near home. How refreshing
sounds the broad voice of the porters at Dover! Squeamish as I am, after
an hour and three-quarters of a nice, short, chopping sea, the sight of
the dear green-fustian jackets, instead of the slovenly blue blouses
across-Channel, goes nigh to revive me. Adieu, O neatly aquiline,
broad-shaved French faces! Welcome, O bearded Britons, with your
rough-hewn noses!

To avoid the heat of the day, we go down from London by a late afternoon
train. It is evening when, almost _before_ the train has stopped, I
insist on jumping out at our station. Imagine if through some accident
we were carried on to the next by mistake!

Such a thing has never happened in the annals of history, but still it
_might_.

Sir Roger has some considerable difficulty in hindering me from shaking
hands with the whole staff of officials. One veteran porter, who has
been here ever since I was born, has a polite but improbable trick of
addressing _every_ female passenger as "my lady." Well, with regard to
_me_, at least, he is right now. I _am_ "my lady." Ha! ha! I have not
nearly got over the ridiculousness of this fact yet, though I have been
in possession of it now these _four_ whole weeks.

It has been a hot, parching summer day, and now that the night draws on
all the flagging flowers in the cottage-borders are straightening
themselves anew, and lifting their leaves to the dews. The pale
bean-flowers, in the broad bean-fields, as we pass, send their delicate
scent over the hedge to me, as if it were some fair and courteous
speech. To me it seems as if they were saying, as plainly as may be,
"Welcome home, Nancy!"

The sky that has been all of one hue during the live-long day--wherever
you looked, nothing but pale, _pale_ azure--is now like the palette of
some God-painter splashed and freaked with all manner of great and noble
colors--a most regal blaze of gold--wide plains of crimson, as if all
heaven were flashing at some high thought--little feathery cloud-islands
of tenderest rose-pink. We are coming very near now. There, down below,
set round its hips with tall rushes, is our pool, all blood-red in the
sunset! Can _that_ be colorless wate