“My dear Lady Davenant! how kind!--how very, very kind of you to wish it--but I never thought of----” “And why did you not think of it, Helen?’” “I mean--I thought you were going to Russia.” “And have you settled, my dear Helen,” said Lady Davenant, smiling, “have you settled that I am never to come back from Russia? Do not you know that you are--that you ever were--you ever will be to me a daughter?” and drawing Helen fondly towards her, she added, “as my own very dear--I must not say dearest child,--must not, because as I well remember once--little creature as you were then---you whispered to me, ‘Never call me dearest,’--generous-hearted child!” And tears started into her eyes as she spoke; but at that moment came a knock at the door. “A packet from Lord Davenant, by Mr. Mapletofft, my lady.” Helen rose to leave the room, but Lady Davenant laid a detaining hand upon her, saying, “You will not be in my way in the least;” and she opened her packet, adding, that while she read, Helen might amuse herself “with arranging the books on that table, or in looking over the letters in that portfolio.” Helen had hitherto seen Lady Davenant only with the eyes of very early youth; but now, after an absence of two years--a great space in her existence, it seemed as if she looked upon her with new eyes, and every hour made fresh discoveries in her character. Contrary to what too often happens when we again see and judge of those whom we have early known, Lady Davenant’s character and abilities, instead of sinking and diminishing, appeared to rise and enlarge, to expand and be ennobled to Helen’s view. Strong lights and shades there were, but these only excited and fixed her attention. Even her defects--those inequalities of temper of which she had already had some example, were interesting as evidences of the power and warmth of her affections. The books on the table were those which Lady Davenant had had in her travelling carriage. They gave Helen an idea of the range and variety of the reader’s mind. Some of them were presentation copies, as they are called, from several of the first authors of our own, and foreign countries; some with dedications to Lady Davenant; others with inscriptions expressing respect or propitiating favour, or anxious for judgment. The portfolio contained letters whose very signatures would have driven the first of modern autograph collectors distracted with joy--whose meanest scrap would make a scrap-book the envy of the world. But among the letters in this portfolio, there were none of those nauseous notes of compliment, none of those epistles adulatory, degrading to those who write, and equally degrading to those to whom they are written: letters which are, however cleverly turned, inexpressibly wearisome to all but the parties concerned.