My name is Helena, and I am fourteen past. I have two other Christian names; one of them is rather queer. It is 'Naomi.' I don't mind having it, as I am never called by it, but I don't sign it often because it is such an odd name. My third name is not uncommon. It is just 'Charlotte.' So my whole name is 'Helena Charlotte Naomi Wingfield.' I have never been called by any short name, like 'Lena, ' or 'Nellie.' I think the reason must be that I am an only child. I have never had any big brother to shout out 'Nell' all over the house, or dear baby sisters who couldn't say 'Helena' properly. And...

We were all at tea in the nursery. All except him. The door burst open and James put his head in. 'If you please, Mrs. Brough, ' he began, -'Mrs. Brough' is the servants' name for nurse. Mamma calls her 'Brough' sometimes, but we always call her 'nurse, ' of course, -'If you please, Mrs. Brough, is Master Peterkin here?' Nurse looked up, rather vexed. She doesn't like burstings in. 'Of course not, James, ' she said. 'He is out driving with his mamma. You must have seen them start.' 'It's just that, ' said James, in his silly way. 'It's his mamma that wants to know.' And then we noticed that...

A foggy evening in early December. Fogs are quick to gather and slow to disperse in the heavily laden air surrounding an assemblage of tall chimneys; and the manufacturing town of Wareborough, low-lying and flat, seemed to have a special attraction for them. Unprepossessing at its best, Wareborough was peculiarly so at this season and in such weather; it would, indeed, have been difficult to choose a day on which it could have less favourably impressed a stranger than the one just drawing drearily to a close. There was a good deal of confusion in the streets, for the fog greatly impeded the...

Autumn-scarcely late autumn yet-and the day had been mild. But as the afternoon wore on towards evening, there came the chilliness and early gloom inevitable at the fall of the year-accompanied, to those who are sensitive to such things, by the indescribable touch of melancholy never present in the same way at other seasons. Philippa Raynsworth shivered slightly, though half-unconscious that she did so, and turned towards the shelter of the friendly porch just at her side. As she moved, a hand was laid on her shoulder. "Come in, you silly girl," said its owner. "Do you want to catch cold?"...

He was spoilt-deplorably, absurdly spoilt. But, so far, that was perhaps the worst that could fairly be said against him. There was genuine manliness still, some chivalry even, yet struggling spasmodically to make itself felt, and-what was practically, perhaps, of more account as a preservative-some small amount of originality in his character. He had still a good deal to learn, and something too to unlearn before he could take rank as past-master in the stupid worldliness of his class and time. For he was neither so blase nor so cynical as he flattered himself, but young enough to affect...

"Sweet Content." That was my name when I was a very tiny child. It may sound rather conceited to tell this of myself, but when I have told all the story I am now beginning, I don't think, at least I hope, you, whoever you are that read it, won't say I am conceited. Indeed, if I thought any one I knew, or rather that knew me, would be likely to read it and to know that the "I" of it was me, I am not by any means sure that I would write it. But, of course, it is not at all certain that it ever will be printed or seen by any one (except, perhaps, by my children, if, when I am grown up, I am...

It stood not very far from the corner-the corner where the lane turned off from the high-road. And it suited its name, or its name suited it. It was such a pretty, cosy-looking house, much larger really than it seemed at the first glance, for it spread out wonderfully at the back. It was red too-the out-jutting front, where the deep porch was, looking specially red, in contrast with the wings, which were entirely covered with ivy, while this centre was kept clear of any creepers. And high up, almost in the roof, two curious round windows, which caught and reflected the sunset glow-for the...

Rosy stood at the window. She drummed on the panes with her little fat fingers in a fidgety cross way; she pouted out her nice little mouth till it looked quite unlike itself; she frowned down with her eyebrows over her two bright eyes, making them seem like two small windows in a house with very overhanging roofs; and last of all, she stamped on the floor with first her right foot and then with her left. But it was all to no purpose, and this made Rosy still more vexed. "Mamma," she said at last, for really it was too bad-wasn't it?-when she had given herself such a lot of trouble to show...

"O, it is trouble very bad, Which causes us to weep; All last night long we were so sad, Not one of us could sleep." Sometimes they called us all three just "the boys." But I don't think that was fair. I may have been rather a tomboy, but I wasn't quite so bad as to be called a "boy." I was nine then- I mean I was nine at the beginning of the time I am going to tell you about, and now I am fourteen. Afterwards, I will tell you what put it into my head to write it down. If I told you now you wouldn't understand-at least not without my telling you things all out of their places-ends at the...

A very little girl was sitting on the rug in front of a brightly burning fire. She was amusing herself with picture books, a number of which were scattered about her, but her small face was flushed, her eyes were heavy, and she seemed restless and dissatisfied. She was suffering from a very bad cold. "I can't read, and I can't see the picshures," she said complainingly, "my eyes hurts, and my head too. You read to me, Harvey." The nurse to whom she spoke was busied in putting away the breakfast things. "You must wait a bit, Miss Ella. I've got ever so many things to do this morning." Ella...