Grim Tales

London: A. D. INNES & CO., 31 & 32, BEDFORD STREET, STRAND, W.C. 1893.
My thanks are due to the Editors of Longman's Magazine , Temple Bar , the Argosy , Home Chimes , and the Illustrated London News , in which periodicals these stories first appeared.
E. Nesbit.
10/4/97.
Will you just send me a card to say if you have any of these, & if so which? In great haste E. Nesbit P.T.O.
Songs of the Maid Skrine The Rosetree of Hildesheim Weston Songs without answer Putnam Songs of love & death Armour A Trip to Fairyland Morgan Arrows of Song The Pilgrim Jewitt Flamma Vestalis Mason Scintilloe Carminis Almy
To be rich is a luxurious sensation—the more so when you have plumbed the depths of hard-up-ness as a Fleet Street hack, a picker-up of unconsidered pars, a reporter, an unappreciated journalist—all callings utterly inconsistent with one's family feeling and one's direct descent from the Dukes of Picardy.
When my Aunt Dorcas died and left me seven hundred a year and a furnished house in Chelsea, I felt that life had nothing left to offer except immediate possession of the legacy. Even Mildred Mayhew, whom I had hitherto regarded as my life's light, became less luminous. I was not engaged to Mildred, but I lodged with her mother, and I sang duets with Mildred, and gave her gloves when it would run to it, which was seldom. She was a dear good girl, and I meant to marry her some day. It is very nice to feel that a good little woman is thinking of you—it helps you in your work—and it is pleasant to know she will say Yes when you say Will you?
But, as I say, my legacy almost put Mildred out of my head, especially as she was staying with friends in the country just then.
Before the first gloss was off my new mourning I was seated in my aunt's own armchair in front of the fire in the dining-room of my own house. My own house! It was grand, but rather lonely. I did think of Mildred just then.
The room was comfortably furnished with oak and leather. On the walls hung a few fairly good oil-paintings, but the space above the mantelpiece was disfigured by an exceedingly bad print, The Trial of Lord William Russell, framed in a dark frame. I got up to look at it. I had visited my aunt with dutiful regularity, but I never remembered seeing this frame before. It was not intended for a print, but for an oil-painting. It was of fine ebony, beautifully and curiously carved.