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Updated: June 21, 2025
He ran lightly up the rickety staircase, and Mollie, pausing a moment to tap at Mrs. Slimmens' door, and ask her to share her last vigil, slowly followed, and returned to the solemn chamber of death. Mrs. Slimmens, worthy woman, saw to Mr. Ingelow's comfort. She found a chair and a little table and a pillow for the young gentleman, and fixed him as agreeably as possible on the landing.
But Jean Ingelow's Poems delighted him, and so did her 'Stories told to a Child. 'Fairy Bells' he often listened to, and was very fond of the pictures in a photograph book of foreign places and great people. He frequently promenaded on the piazza of a little Swiss chalet, standing on the mantel-piece, and thought it a charming residence for a single gentleman like himself.
Orton Beg ejaculated softly. "The times have changed." "Yes, we know more now," Evadne answered tranquilly. "You are fulfilling the promise of your youth, Evadne," her aunt remarked after a thoughtful pause. "I remember reading a fairy tale of Jean Ingelow's aloud to you children in the nursery long ago.
"Where are we?" asked the young lady, still bewildered. "In Mr. Ingelow's studio," responded Mrs. Susan Sharpe. "Oh, Broadway! Then we are safe in New York?" The uproar in the great thoroughfare below answered her effectually. She rose up and walked to one of the windows. Life was all astir on the noisy pave.
Ingelow's shoulder. And, that bold buccaneer of modern society gathered the little girl close to his heart, like the presumptuous scoundrel he was, and let her cry her fill; and the face he bent over her was glorified and ecstatic. "Stop crying, Mollie," he said at last, putting back the yellow curls, and peeping at the flushed, wet, pretty face.
Miss Sichliffe's house I discovered to be a mid-Victorian mansion of peculiar villainy even for its period, surrounded by gardens of conflicting colours, all dazzling with glass and fresh paint on ironwork. Striped blinds, for it was a blazing autumn morning, covered most of the windows, and a voice sang to the piano an almost forgotten song of Jean Ingelow's
Sibyl and Chryssa are dear old friends, though I suppose now it is not merely what Kate reads, but what she associates with the story. I am not often separated from Jean Ingelow's "Stories told to a Child," that charmingly wise and pleasant little book. It is always new, like Kate's favorite.
After the lighthouse was built, Winstanley went out again to see his precious tower. A fearful storm came up, and the tower and its builder went down together. Several books have come from Miss Ingelow's pen since 1863.
For golden-haired, blue-eyed Mollie earth held no greater happiness, just then, than to sit by Hugh Ingelow's side and bask in the light of his smile. "Delightfully suggestive all this, eh?" said the artist, helping his fair neighbor bountifully. And Mollie blushed "celestial, rosy red." "What comes next?" she asked. "After breakfast what then?" "That is for Mistress Mollie to decide."
Hugh Ingelow's rapt face showed what he felt as Mollie rose. "Miss Dane ought to go upon the stage; she would make her fortune," said a deep voice at her elbow. She turned sharply round and met the dark, sinister eyes and pale face of Dr. Oleander. "Miss Dane forgets me," he said, with a low bow, "among so many presentations. Will you kindly reintroduce me, Mr. Ingelow?" Mr.
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