Eight years have passed, and Clara Stanley is still unmarried; yet she is happy and contented, for she is once more amid the scenes of her childhood; once more the centre of a domestic circle, who vie with each other who can love her best. Two years after she heard of Granville Dudley’s marriage, finding a London life less and less suited to her tastes, and not conceiving any actual duty bound her to reside with her uncle’s family, she resolved on making her home with an intimate friend of her mother’s, who was associated with all the happy memories of her own childhood and youth. Reduced circumstances had lately compelled Mrs. Langley to take pupils; a fact which had instantly determined Clara’s plans. She was the more desirous for retirement and domestic ties, from the very notoriety which the constant success of her literary efforts had flung around her. She did not disdain or undervalue fame; but all of expressed admiration, all public homage, was so very much more pain than pleasure, that she shrunk from it; longing yet more for some kindly heart on which to rest her own. Let us not be mistaken: it was not for love, in the world’s adaptation of the word, she needed; it was a parent’s fostering care—a brother’s supporting friendship—a sister’s sympathy, or one friend to love her for herself, for the qualities of heart, not for the labours and capabilities of mind. From the time she heard of Dudley’s marriage, all thought of individual happiness as a wife faded from her imagination. Her only efforts were to rouse every energy to supply objects of interest and affection, and so prevent the listlessness and despondency too often the fate of disappointed women. This had, at first, been indeed a painfully difficult task; for her heart had whispered it was because she was different from her fellows, because she was what the world termed literary and learned, Granville had shunned her; and a few words, undesignedly and carelessly spoken by Charles Heyward, relative to Dudley’s dislike to female literature, from its effects on his mother, confirmed the idea, and made her shrink from her former favourite pursuits. But she, too, had a character to sustain; and once more she compelled herself to work, believing that her talents were lent her to be instruments of good, not to lie unused. And yet, to a character of strong affections and active energies, mental resources, however varied, were not quite sufficient for happiness; and therefore was it she formed and executed the plan we have named.

So seven years had sped, and there was little variation in the life of our heroine for her biographer to record. Her constant prayer was heard. Her name had become a household word, coupled with love, from the pure high feelings and ennobling sympathies which her writings had called forth. Her works had made her beloved and revered, though her person, nay, her very place of residence and all concerning her were, as she desired, utterly unknown. This in itself was happiness, inexpressibly heightened by her present domestic duties, lightening Mrs. Langley’s household cares; giving part of every day to that lady’s pupils; teaching them not only to be accomplished and domestic, but to be thinkers; training the heart, even more than the mind; making nature alike a temple and a school: all the sweet charities of home were now hers, and her heart was indeed happy and once more at rest.

And was Granville Dudley, then, forgotten? When we say that Clara might have married more than once, and most happily, but that she had refused, simply because she could not permit an unloved reality to usurp the place of a still loved shadow—all doubts, we think, are answered.

Of Granville Dudley she could never hear; all trace of him seemed lost. Within the last few years the newspapers had indeed often teemed with the praises and speeches of a Sir Dudley Granville; but, though the conjunction of names had at first riveted her eye and made her heart turn strangely sick, she banished the thought as folly. It was a Granville Dudley, not a Dudley Granville, whom she had too fondly loved.

Miss Stanley had resided about seven years with Mrs. Langley, when application was made to the latter lady to receive the only child of Sir Dudley Granville as her pupil. The child was motherless, and in such very precarious health, that the milder climate of Devonshire had been advised, as, combined with extreme care, the only chance of rearing her to womanhood. Mrs. Langley’s establishment was full, six being her allotted number, which no persuasion had as yet ever induced her to increase. There was something, however, in the appearance of the little Laura which so unconsciously won upon Clara, that she could not resist pleading in the child’s behalf; and as one of the pupils was to leave the next half year, Mrs. Langley acceded. Clara’s name, however, had not been mentioned in this transaction. The lady who had the charge of Laura had indeed conversed with her, and had been charmed with her manner; but little imagined she was enjoying the often-coveted honour of conversing with an authoress, and one so popular as Clara Stanley. She said that Laura, though eight years old, literally knew nothing. Lady Granville had been the belle of her time, but one who had the greatest horror of all learning in woman, and in consequence possessing nothing of herself but showy accomplishment, which told in society. She had neglected the poor child, wasted alike her own health and her husband’s income in the sole pursuit of pleasure, and hurried herself to an early grave. Laura’s health had been so delicate since then, that her father feared to commence her studies, even while he was most anxious she should become a sensible and accomplished woman, with resources for happiness within herself.

“And she shall be, if I can make her so,” was Clara’s inward thought, as she looked on the sweet face of the child, and a new chord in her heart was touched she knew not wherefore. It was impossible to analyse the feeling, even to one long accustomed to analysing hearts, and Clara gave it up in despair; but affection and interest alike clung round the child, who gave back all she received. Her weak health prevented her entering into all the routine of the schoolroom, and she became Clara’s constant companion and pupil. Repeatedly the artless letters of the child to her doting father teemed with the goodness, the gentleness, the tenderness of Miss Stanley; soon convincing Sir Dudley how quick and ready were her powers of comprehension, and filling his heart with gratitude towards that kind friend, whom he knew not, guessed not was the authoress of the same name whose gentle eloquence in her sex’s cause had even now his admiration.

Laura Granville had been with Mrs. Langley about eight months, when she became extremely ill, from an epidemic that had suddenly broken out in the village; all Mrs. Langley’s household were attacked by it in a greater or less degree, but in Laura alone did it threaten to be fatal. Careless of her own fatigue, Clara devoted herself, day and night, to the young sufferer. Her affections had never before been so warmly enlisted; not one of her young friends had ever become so completely part of herself, and as she watched and tended her morning prayers for her recovery, it seemed as if the child must be something nearer to her than in reality she was.

An express had been sent off for Sir Dudley Granville; but, from his having gone unexpectedly to visit a friend in Germany, it was unavoidably delayed on its way, and nearly three weeks elapsed ere the baronet reached Ashford. From the haste with which he had travelled, no account of her progress could reach him; and it was in a state of agony and suspense no words can describe that the father flung himself from his carriage at Mrs. Langley’s gate, and rushed into her presence.

“Your child lives; is rapidly recovering—may be stronger than she has been yet,” were the first words he heard, for his look and manner were all-sufficient introduction; and the benevolent physician, who had that instant quitted his little patient, grasped Sir Dudley’s hand with reassuring pressure. The baronet tried to return it with a smile, but his quivering lip could only gasp forth an ejaculation of thankfulness, and sinking on a chair, he covered his face with his hand.

“Let me see this incomparable young woman, the preserver of my child!” he passionately exclaimed, as Dr. Bernard and Mrs. Langley, after describing the progress and crisis of Laura’s illness, attributed her unexpected recovery, under Providence, to the incessant care and watchfulness of Miss Stanley, the physician declaring his utmost skill had been, without it, of............