Along with her love of music there had begun, and there continued a love of animals, and, from Moses, a dog of Brockenhurst days, there stretched down a long procession of dogs, cats, monkeys, foxes, moles, merecats, mongeese, bush cats and marmosets, accompanied by a variety of birds. If such a thing as a dumb animal has ever existed it certainly was not one of hers, for, besides what they were able to say for themselves, they spoke much through her. Not only were they able to recount all that had happened to them in past home or jungle, they were perfectly able to give advice in every situation and to join in every discussion. Neither were their pens less ready than their tongues, and many were the letters of flamboyant script and misspelt word that came forth from cage or basket. Frederic William Maitland possessed a small property at Brookthorpe, Gloucestershire; and near this property, in a house in the village of Edge and at the top of the Horsepools hill, he and his wife and their two children spent most of their holidays. They were happy days. Animals increased in number and rejoiced in freedom, fairs were attended, dancing bears and bird carts came at intervals to the door, gipsies were delighted in and protected, and it was there that many friendships with country people were made. Several days a week would find Mrs. Maitland driving down to Brookthorpe in donkey or pony cart to see tenants, to enquire for or feed the sick, to visit the school, to advise and be advised in the many difficulties of human life. With a wonderful memory and power of reproducing that which she had heard, she brought back rare harvest from these expeditions. All through her days she was told more in a week than many people hear in a life-time. After much illness, Professor Maitland was told that he must leave England, and in 1898 the Maitlands set sail to the island of Grand Canary; and it was there that they spent each winter, with the exception of one in Madeira, until Professor Maitland’s death in 1906. The beauty and warmth of the island were a joy to Mrs. Maitland, washing out all the difficulties of housekeeping and the labour of cooking. The day of hardest work still left her time to set forth, accompanied by a faithful one-legged hen, to seek the shade of chestnut or loquat tree, and there to write. The song of frogs rising from watery palm grove, the hot dusty scent of pepper tree, the cool scent of orange, the mountains sharp and black against the evening sky, the brightly coloured houses crowded to the brink of still brighter sea, were all things she loved, and their images remained with her always. She became an expert talker of what she called kitchen Spanish, and her store of country history increased greatly, for, from Candelaria, the washer-woman to Don Luis the grocer, she met no one who was not ready to tell her all the marvels that ever they knew.