She came up to town with her novel; but not only with her novel, for she brought her mother with her. So great was her eloquence, so excellent her suasive power either with her tongue or by that look of supplication in her face, that she induced her mother to abandon her home in Cornboro, and trust herself to London lodgings. The house was let furnished to the new curate, and when I first heard of the Gresleys they were living on the second floor in a small street near to the Euston Square station. Poor Fanny, as she was called, was left in some humble home at Cornboro, and Mary travelled up to try her fortune in the great city. When we came to know her well we expressed our doubts as to the wisdom of such a step. Yes; the vicar’s wife had been strong against the move. Mary confessed as much. That lady had spoken most forcible words, had uttered terrible predictions, had told sundry truths. But Mary had prevailed, and the journey was made, and the lodgings were taken. We can now come to the day on which we first saw her. She did not write, but came direct to us with her manuscript in her hand. “A young woman, Sir, wants to see you,” said the clerk, in that tone to which we were so well accustomed, and which indicated the dislike which he had learned from us to the reception of unknown visitors. “Young woman! What young woman?” “Well, Sir; she is a very young woman;--quite a girl like.” “I suppose she has got a name. Who sent her? I cannot see any young woman without knowing why. What does she want?” “Got a manuscript in her hand, Sir.” “I’ve no doubt she has, and a ton of manuscripts in drawers and cupboards. Tell her to write. I won’t see any woman, young or old, without knowing who she is.” The man retired, and soon returned with an envelope belonging to the office, on which was written, “Miss Mary Gresley, late of Cornboro.” He also brought me a note from “the man of letters” down in Yorkshire. “Of what sort is she?” I asked, looking at the introduction.