Helen sat in a delightful _embarras de richesse_. To read them all--all at
once, was impossible; with which to begin, she could not determine. One
after another was laid aside as too good to be read first, and after
glancing at the contents of each, she began to deal them round
alphabetically till she was struck by a passage in one of them--she looked
to the signature, it was unknown to fame--she read the whole, it was
striking and interesting. There were several letters in the same hand, and
Helen was surprised to find them arranged according to their dates, in Lady
Davenant's own writing--preserved with those of persons of illustrious
reputation! These she read on without further hesitation. There was no sort
of affectation in them--quite easy and natural, "real feeling, and genius,"
certainly genius, she thought!--and there seemed something romantic and
uncommon in the character of the writer. They were signed Granville
Beauclerc!

Who could he be, this Granville Beauclerc? She read on till Lady Davenant,
having finished her packet, rang a silver handbell, as was her custom, to
summon her page. At the first tingle of the bell Helen started, and Lady
Davenant asked, "Whose letter, my dear, has so completely abstracted you?"

Carlos, the page, came in at this instant, and after a quick glance at the
handwriting of the letters, Lady Davenant gave her orders in Portuguese to
Carlos, and then returning to Helen, took no further notice of the letters,
but went on just where she had left off. "Helen, I remember when you were
about nine years old, timid as you usually were, your coming forward,
bold as a little lion, to attack me in Cecilia's defence; I forget the
particulars, but I recollect that you said I was unjust, and that I did not
know Cecilia, and there you were right; so, to reward you, you shall see
that now I do her perfect justice, and that I am as fond of her as your
heart can wish. I really never did know Cecilia till I saw her heartily in