The Actress' Daughter: A Novel

Mrs. Fleming's stories are growing more and more popular every day. Their delineations of character, life-like conversations, flashes of wit, constantly varying scenes, and deeply interesting plots, combine to place their author in the very first rank of Modern Novelists.
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GUY EARLSCOURT'S WIFE, A WONDERFUL WOMAN, A TERRIBLE SECRET, SILENT AND TRUE, A MAD MARRIAGE LOST FOR A WOMAN, ONE NIGHT'S MYSTERY, ETC., ETC.
Who that had seen her form so light, For swiftness only turned, Would e'er have thought in a thing so slight, Such a fiery spirit burned?


Heap on more wood! the wind is chill; But let it whistle as it will, We'll keep our Christmas merry still. —Scott.
or! Lor! what a night it is any way. Since I was first born, and that's thirty-five—no, forty-five years come next June, I never heern sich win' as that there, fit to tear the roof off! Well, this is Christmas Eve, and we ginerally do hev a spell o' weather 'bout this time. Here you Fly! Fly! you little black imp you! if you don't stop that falling asleep over the fire, and stir your lazy stumps, I'll tie you up and give you such a switchin' as you never had in all your born days. Ar-r-r-r! there I vow to Sam if that derned old tabby cat hain't got her nose stuck into the apple sass! Scat! you hussy! Fly-y-y! you ugly little black ace-o'-spades! will you wake up afore I twist your neck for you?
And the speaker of this spirited address—a tall, thin, pasteboard female, as erect as a ramrod and as flat as a shingle, with a hard, uncompromising face, and a hawk-like gray eye, caught hold of the drowsy little darkey nodding in the chimney-corner, and shook her as if she had been a flourishing little fruit tree in harvest time.
P-please, Miss Jerry, 'scuse me—I didn't go for to do it, stammered Fly, with a very wide-awake and startled face. I wasn't asleep, old Mist—