The intimacy between Clara Rivolta and Miss Henderson continued for a time uninterrupted. The friends of the former were not aware of the character of Miss Henderson; and had they been, they would not have supposed that Clara so much admired and esteemed her as she really did. Old Mr. Martindale had paid very kind and friendly attention to the settlement of the affairs of the late Lord Martindale, and having spent as much time in town as he thought desirable, removed his establishment to the coast, that his family might enjoy the pleasures of a watering-place. So it came to pass that the female friends were parted: but though separated, they were not forgetful of each other. Miss Henderson wrote a most beautiful hand, so small, so clear, with letters so peculiarly well-turned, that whenever she put a letter into the post-office, she thought that the letter-sorter and the postman must pause to admire the beauty of the writing. Not one of her numerous acquaintance could condense so many words into the compass of one common-sized sheet of letter-paper. With such qualifications, no wonder that she seized every opportunity of writing letters. People always do with pleasure that which they think they do well. It would gratify us if we could present the public with a fac-simile of one of Miss Henderson's letters, but our publisher will not allow of it. Our readers must therefore be contented with the printed copy of one. It is as follows: "How feeble, my ever dear Clara, is the power of language to express the emotions of the heart! My heart is the seat of ten thousand times ten thousand agitating and conflicting thoughts, painful recollections, gloomy forebodings, tender regrets, joyous hopes. Oh, what is life without friendship! And how few, alas! who are worthy of the confidence of friendship. When I look upon the multitudes of people that pass and repass every day and every hour--when I see the common-place, every-day people of the world, and observe how careless and how contented they seem in the midst of their gross ignorance and stupidity, I cannot sometimes repress the almost impious wish that I were as stupid as they are. Is it not too true that increase of knowledge is increase of sorrow? The town is now empty, and yet pa's chapel is somehow well attended. Many people come from the city to hear him, and some young lawyers also from the inns of courts. You would be amused to see their vacant looks of admiration, almost amounting to astonishment, when pa gives one of his fine apostrophes, or his well-turned metaphors. Tippetson is still in town. I wonder what he can find to amuse him at this dull time of year. Pa would go to Brighton if he could find any tolerable substitute to fill his place in his absence, but the generality of preachers you know, my dear, are so dull, stupid, and common-place, that it is absolutely impossible for a person of any sense to sit and hear them; I am really astonished that