Reed’s lace frills, and crimped her nightcap borders, fed our eager attention with passages of love and adventure taken from old fairy tales and other ballads or (as at a later period I discovered) from the pages of Pamela, and Henry, Earl of Moreland. So was the black horned thing seated aloof on a rock, surveying a distant crowd surrounding a gallows.Įach picture told a story mysterious often to my undeveloped understanding and imperfect feelings, yet ever profoundly interesting: as interesting as the tales Bessie sometimes narrated on winter evenings, when she chanced to be in good humour and when, having brought her ironing-table to the nursery hearth, she allowed us to sit about it, and while she got up Mrs.
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