He was effectually roused, for, till then, he certainly had no conception of a rival in letters with any living man he had yet met. He had found none to appreciate his talents so purely, so highly, and so encouragingly, as Lord De Freston and his daughter; and it might be truly said, that none could do so better than that learned and elegant scholar whose life had been devoted to study from his youth. He had married the niece of the wealthiest Commoner in the land, and married her not for her property, since he was himself the owner of vast estates on the banks of the Orwell, as well as in the vale of Worcester. He had espoused the niece of Edmund Daundy, M.P. for Ipswich, and the most extensive merchant in that port. His lady, with whom, for the first six years of their married state, he had lived in harmony and happiness, was taken from him at that most anxious period when she had just given birth to a son and heir. Infant and mother died, leaving him one bright companion, the image of her mother, and in qualities of mind and heart superior even in childhood to most of her sex. Lord De Freston had thus become very early engrossed by the education and training of his affectionate daughter, and such was the delight he took in her, and so well were his parental anxieties repaid by the capacity, diligence, and sense of duty of his child, that years had imperceptibly fled away, until he found her growing more and more upon his affections. He now made her his companion, not only in his studies, but in all his worldly affairs. She was, indeed, the admiration of all who knew her, and had such a powerful mind, such a cultivated taste for literature and for all the elegant arts, then in their progressive rise in this country, that Ellen De Freston was as famed upon the banks of the Orwell as Madame de Stael, or Madame d'Arblay, in after-days for their precocious powers. Hers, however, were of a different stamp, of a far deeper kind; and mind in that maiden might be said to have a texture so pure, that it gave unwonted charm to a face almost as beautiful as her intellect. Young Wolsey, about her own age, was so attracted by these wonderful qualities, that it is not to be wondered at, that he should feel an interest in the only being he ever saw calculated to inspire him with the hope of excelling for the sake of pleasing her. Such was the delight he took in her society, and such her pure pleasure in his, that distant relatives as they were, Lord De Freston looked upon them as brother and sister; and neither he nor his daughter had the slightest idea of their young friend ever imbibing any deeper feeling than the love of literature, and the joy of sharing its pleasures.