It was a small farm of only eighty-five acres, and as his father could make no more than a bare livelihood out of it, he eventually gave it up when my informant was but three years old, and selling all he had, emigrated to Australia.

Nine years later he died, leaving a numerous family poorly provided for; the home was broken up and boys and girls had to go out and face the world.

They had somehow all got on very well, and his brothers and sisters were happy enough out there, Australians in mind, thoroughly persuaded that theirs was the better land, the best country in the world, and with no desire to visit England.

He had never felt like that; somehow his father's feeling about the old country had taken such a hold of him that he never outlived it--never felt at home in Australia, however successful he was in his affairs.

The home feeling had been very strong in his father; his greatest delight was to sit of an evening with his children round him and tell them of the farm and the old farm-house where he was born and had lived so many years, and where some of them too had been born.