Some of us _are_ "sentimental," you see. I can answer for myself, at least; and I know that the air of "Home, sweet Home," has affected me quite as much as the "Ranz des Vaches" would appeal to the sensibilities of an Alpine Jodeller! I got home-sick now. The passion took complete possession of me. The burning, suffocating heat of the summer "in the States," caused me to pant after the cool shade of the old Prebend's walk at Saint Canon's; and call to mind those inviting lawns and osiered eyots along the Thames, where I used to spend the warm evenings at home. I thought as Izaak Walton, the vicar's favourite, had thought before me--that I would cheerfully sacrifice all hopes of worldly advancement, all dreams of fortune, all future success, problematical though each and all appeared-- So, I the fields and meadows green may view; And daily by fresh rivers walk at will, Among the daisies and violets blue, Red hyacinth and yellow daffodil; Purple narcissus, like the morning's rays, Pale gander grass and azure culver keys. In the gorgeous Indian summer, when the nature of the New World seems to awake, dressing all the trees in fantastic foliage of varied hue, my fancies were recalled to a well-remembered Virginian creeper that ornamented the houses of the Terrace, where my darling lived; for its leafy colouring in the autumn was similar to that I now beheld--in the chrome-tinted maples, the silvery-toned beeches and scarlet "sumachs" of the western forests. And in the frozen winter, of almost Arctic severity and continuance, home was brought even nearer to me--in connection with all the cherished memories of that kindly-tempered season. I thought of the old firesides where I had been a welcome guest in times past; the old Christmas festivities, the old Christmas cheer, the--bah! What good will it do to you and I thus to trace over the aching foot-prints of recollection? I used to go down to the mouth of the Hudson river, that I might watch the red-funnelled Cunard steamers start on their passage to England-- sending my heart after them in impotent cravings: I used, I remember, to mark off the days as they passed, in the little almanack of my pocket- book--scoring them out, just as Robinson Crusoe was in the habit of notching his post for the same purpose:--I used to fret and fret, in fact, eating my soul away in vain repinings and foolish longings! And, still, my fortunes did not brighten--notwithstanding that I hunted in every direction for work, and tried to wean my mind from painful associations by hopeful anticipations of "something turning up" on the morrow. The morrow came, sure enough; but no good luck:--my fortunes got darker and darker, as time went on; while my home yearnings grew stronger. I would have borne my troubles much better, I'm certain, if I could only have heard from my darling.