Mrs. Collingwood observed with surprise, that Helen spoke of her with even more enthusiasm than of her dear Lady Cecilia. “Yes, because she is a person more likely to excite enthusiasm.” “You did not feel afraid of her, then?” “I do not say that,” replied Helen; “yet it was not fear exactly, it was more a sort of awe, but still I liked it. It is so delightful to have something to look up to. I love Lady Davenant all the better, even for that awe I felt of her.” “And I like you all the better for everything you feel, think, and say about your friends,” cried Mrs. Collingwood; “but let us see what they will do; when I see whether they can write, and what they write to you, I will tell you more of my mind--if any letters come.” “If!--” Helen repeated, but would say no more--and there it rested, or at least stopped. By common consent the subject was not recurred to for several days. Every morning at post-time Helen’s colour rose with expectation, and then faded with disappointment; still, with the same confiding look, she said, “I am sure it is not their fault.” “Time will show,” said Mrs. Collingwood. At length, one morning when she came down to breakfast, “Triumph, my dear Helen!” cried Mrs. Collingwood, holding up two large letters, all scribbled over with “Try this place and try that, mis-sent to Cross-keys--Over moor, and heaven knows where--and--no matter.” Helen seized the packets and tore them open; one was from Paris, written immediately after the news of Dean Stanley’s death; it contained two letters, one from Lady Davenant, the other from Lady Cecilia--“written, only think!” cried she, “how kind!--the very day before her marriage; signed ‘Cecilia Davenant, for the last time,’--and Lady Davenant, too--to think of me in all their happiness.” She opened the other letters, written since their arrival in England, she read eagerly on,--then stopped, and her looks changed. “Lady Davenant is not coming to Cecilhurst. Lord Davenant is to be sent ambassador to Petersburgh, and Lady Davenant will go along with him!--Oh! there is an end of everything, I shall never see her again!--Stay--she is to be first with Lady Cecilia at Clarendon Park, wherever that is, for some time--she does not know how long--she hopes to see me there--oh! how kind, how delightful!” Helen put Lady Davenant’s letter proudly into Mrs. Collingwood’s hand, and eagerly opened Lady Cecilia’s. “So like herself! so like Cecilia,” cried she. Mrs. Collingwood read and acknowledged that nothing could be kinder, for here was an invitation, not vague or general, but particular, and pressing as heart could wish or heart could make it. “We shall be at Clarendon Park on Thursday, and shall expect you, dearest Helen, on Monday, just time, the general says, for an answer; so write and say where horses shall meet you,” &c. &c. “Upon my word, this is being in earnest, when it comes to horses meeting,” cried Mr. Collingwood. “Of course you will go directly?”