All the little circle of friends in the quiet village of Wingsdale shared in Mrs. Vernon’s enjoyment. They listened to accounts of the first wondrous Crystal Palace, glittering like some fairy structure on the trodden sward of Hyde Park; the "sermons in stones" preached from the spoils of old Nineveh; descriptions of the treasures of art, all the things beautiful, curious, and rare, upon which the eye of Flora had rested delighted. They heard also personal descriptions of men with whose names they were already familiar--how Shaftesbury had spoken, and Guthrie had preached; whilst not least interesting to the hearts of her rural subjects was a graphic account of our gracious Queen from the enthusiastic pen of Flora. But never had the young correspondent expressed herself in such glowing terms of admiration and pleasure as in her description of Sir Amery Legrange, whom she spoke of as one of the leading writers of the day. She had been actually introduced to "the lion," had listened to the wondrous flow of eloquence which made his conversation an intellectual treat beyond any which she had ever known before. With his expansive brow, eagle eye, most poetical cast of countenance, his were exactly the face and form which a painter would wish to immortalize on canvas, as representing the beau ideal of a genius; and Flora could not but imagine that Sir Amery must have drawn himself in the hero of his famous _chef-d’oeuvre_, "The Master-Mind." "’The Master-Mind!’" lisped Emma from the sofa; "Oh! I have read that--all the world has read it--it is a most charming work! I have it somewhere in my boxes, I think." Mrs. Vernon was content to be classed with those not of the world, for she had never read, nor even heard of the book. She was pleased, however, that her child should have met one of the literary celebrities of London, and had thus added another to the pleasant recollections which she would carry with her from the metropolis. The next morning’s post brought a description of a _fête_ at the Botanical Gardens; and this sentence occurred in Flora’s letter: "We met our brilliant author just as we were entering the gardens, and he remained the whole time with our party. He has certainly wonderful powers of conversation; just such as might be expected from a writer whose pen seems dipped in the colours of the rainbow, and brightens whatever it touches. When he speaks, we can do nothing but listen." "I think, Emma," said Mrs. Vernon, "that you mentioned that you had a copy of ’The Master-Mind’ beside you. I should be obliged, if you would allow me to read it."