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.
Troubled at his failure, he went back and questioned his landlord, and, naturally, was asked for the name of the farm he was seeking.

He had forgotten the name--he even doubted that he had ever heard it.