It may be doubted whether there was a happier young woman in England than Dorothy Stanbury when that September came which was to make her the wife of Mr Brooke Burgess, the new partner in the firm of Cropper and Burgess.  Her early aspirations in life had been so low, and of late there had come upon her such a succession of soft showers of success, mingled now and then with slight threatenings of storms which had passed away, that the Close at Exeter seemed to her to have become a very Paradise.  Her aunt’s temper had sometimes been to her as the threat of a storm, and there had been the Gibson marriage treaty, and the short-lived opposition to the other marriage treaty which had seemed to her to be so very preferable; but everything had gone at last as though she had been Fortune’s favourite; and now had come this beautiful arrangement about Cropper and Burgess, which would save her from being carried away to live among strangers in London!  When she first became known to us on her coming to Exeter, in compliance with her aunt’s suggestion, she was timid, silent, and altogether without self-reliance.  Even they who knew her best had never guessed that she possessed a keen sense of humour, a nice appreciation of character, and a quiet reticent wit of her own, under that staid and frightened demeanour.  Since her engagement with Brooke Burgess it seemed to those who watched her that her character had become changed, as does that of a flower when it opens itself in its growth.  The sweet gifts of nature within became visible, the petals sprang to view, and the leaves spread themselves, and the sweet scent was felt upon the air.  Had she remained at Nuncombe, it is probable that none would ever have known her but her sister.  It was necessary to this flower that it should be warmed by the sun of life, and strengthened by the breezes of opposition, and filled by the showers of companionship, before it could become aware of its own loveliness.  Dorothy was one who, had she remained ever unseen in the retirement of her mother’s village cottage, would have lived and died ignorant of even her own capabilities for enjoyment.  She had not dreamed that she could win a man’s love—­had hardly dreamed till she had lived at Exeter that she had love of her own to give back in return.  She had not known that she could be firm in her own opinion, that she could laugh herself and cause others to laugh, that she could be a lady and know that other women were not so, that she had good looks of her own and could be very happy when told of them by lips that she loved.  The flower that blows the quickest is never the sweetest.  The fruit that ripens tardily has ever the finest flavour.  It is often the same with men and women.  The lad who talks at twenty as men should talk at thirty, has seldom much to say worth the hearing when he is forty; and the girl who at eighteen can shine in society with composure, has generally given over shining before she is a full-grown woman.  With Dorothy the scent and beauty of the flower, and the flavour of the fruit, had come late; but the fruit will keep, and the flower will not fall to pieces with the heat of an evening.