Smaller fragments of rock were placed as seats for the ladies, and though they had not all the conveniences of a well-ordered dining-room, they only enjoyed themselves the more for the want of them, while L’Isle busied himself in doing the hospitalities of what Lady Mabel christened “Fairy Dell.”  The inducements were strong to remain here until the heat of the day was past.  Mrs. Shortridge had had her fill of heat and fatigue, in scrambling over the rugged mountain.  Lady Mabel had to place her botanical treasures with their stems in the water, to revive their already withering bloom and rear their drooping heads, before she could cull from their unwieldy bulk the specimens she wished to preserve.  So, after their meal, the servant was sent to order the horses up to the nearest point that admitted of riding, while the party reposed themselves in the shade and rested from their labors, luxuriously enjoying the scene, sounds, and atmosphere around them.

“How did you happen to find this lovely spot?” asked Mrs. Shortridge.

“The truth is, I yesterday morning went over the same ground we have gone over to-day, and a good deal more,” answered L’Isle.  “Following this stream upward, I came to this spot.  If you would hunt out the peculiar beauties of Portugal, you must follow the course of its rivers and rivulets.  True as this is of many countries, it is most true of this.  You may observe, Lady Mabel, that almost all the plants you have collected, and some flowers you have not met with to-day, were contained in the collection I brought you yesterday.”

“I see that,” said Lady Mabel.  “But to-day’s work is not therefore the less satisfactory.  The title botanist—­and I suppose you have found out that I make some pretensions to that character—­is not content with merely having flowers, leaves, and parts of plants in his hortus siccus, or even abortive specimens in his garden and his hot-house:  he wants to see the whole plant where nature placed it, and study its character and habits there.  Who is satisfied with seeing a Turk in London?  To know him as he is, we look for him in Constantinople, or, better still, in some province across the Bosphorus, seated on his own carpet, in his own shop, or in his coffee-house; or, better still, in his harem, with his customers, or neighbors, or his family of wives around him.  How much does the Esquimaux in London resemble the Esquimaux seated on his sledge, shouting at his team of dogs, and posting over his frozen and trackless route, with a horizon of ice around him?  That is traveling, and this is botany; and of all sciences botany best suits the traveler.  Every variation of latitude, climate, or season, even the smallest changes of soil, elevation, or exposure, brings him to a new region, where he may make new acquaintances, or meet old friends.  Through a love for botany the wilderness blooms to us like a garden, and the solitary places are made populous and glad.”