Again, what was this home? God himself. His thoughts, his will, his love, his judgment, are man’s home. To think his thoughts, to choose his will, to love his loves, to judge his judgments, and thus to know that he is in us, with us, is to be at home. And to pass through the valley of the shadow of death is the way home, but only thus, that as all changes have hitherto led us nearer to this home, the knowledge of God, so this greatest of all outward changes--for it is but an outward change--will surely usher us into a region where there will be fresh possibilities of drawing nigh in heart, soul, and mind to the Father of us. It is the father, the mother, that make for the child his home. Indeed, I doubt if the home-idea is complete to the parents of a family themselves, when they remember that their fathers and mothers have vanished. At this point something rose in me seeking utterance. “Won’t it be delightful, wife,” I began, “to see our fathers and mothers such a long way back in heaven?” But Ethelwyn’s face gave so little response, that I felt at once how dreadful a thing it was not to have had a good father or mother. I do not know what would have become of me but for a good father. I wonder how anybody ever can be good that has not had a good father. How dreadful not to be a good father or good mother! Every father who is not good, every mother who is not good, just makes it as impossible to believe in God as it can be made. But he is our one good Father, and does not leave us, even should our fathers and mothers have thus forsaken us, and left him without a witness. Here the evil odour of brick-burning invaded my nostrils, and I knew that London was about us. A few moments after, we reached the station, where a carriage was waiting to take us to our hotel. Dreary was the change from the stillness and sunshine of Kilkhaven to the fog and noise of London; but Connie slept better that night than she had slept for a good many nights before. After breakfast the next morning, I said to Wynnie, “I am going to see Mr. Percivale’s studio, my dear: have you any objection to going with me?” “No, papa,” she answered, blushing. “I have never seen an artist’s studio in my life.” “Come along, then. Get your bonnet at once. It rains, but we shall take a cab, and it won’t matter.”