108 
CHAPTER XIV. 
Pebchajs'ce, during your summer trip, you Pave 
been able to visit some or all of tbe places I bave 
tried to describe, and you turn once more home¬ 
ward. You take a last glance from the railway 
carriage or the steamboat, as the case may be, of 
the hills among which you have been wandering. 
The giant cliffs fade from your view, the sea is left 
behind, and you sigh as you come in sight of the 
great city where you dwell,—miles, miles of houses, 
blackened trees, dingy grass, flagging shrubs in 
dusty squares; and your thoughts fly back to shady 
lanes and overarching woods, and your heart sinks, 
just a little, within you. 
But you are going home, at any rate. Home 
should ever be the dearest, happiest spot on earth, 
wherever it may be: and you may make even a 
dusty, smoky, confined London house look pretty 
and cheerful, with a little taste and contrivance. 
You have your fern treasures gathered during 
