Produced by Daniel Fromont
Eleanor Frances Poynter is the author of My little lady (1871novel), Ersilia (1876 novel), Among the hills (1881 novel),Madame de Presnel (1885 novel), The wooing of Catherine andother tales (1886), The failure of Elisabeth (1890 novel), Anexquisite fool (1892 novel), Michael Ferrier (1902 novel); andtranslator of Wilhelmine von Hillern's The vulture maiden (DieGeier-Wally) (1876) and Agnès Mary Duclaux (later Mrs JamesDarmesteter)'s Froissart (1895).
Two of her novels were translated in French: My little ladyas Madeleine Linders (1873); and Among the hills as Hetty(1883).
The Saturday Review vol. XXX p. 794 comments My little lady asfollows: "There are certain female characters in novels whichremind one of nothing so much as of a head of Greuze,—fresh,simple, yet of the cunningly simple type, 'innocent—arch,' andintensely natural…. 'My Little Lady' is a character of thisGreuze-like kind…. The whole book is charming; quietly told,quietly thought, without glare or flutter, and interesting inboth character and story,… and, if slight of kind, thoroughlygood of its kind."
Thy sinless progress, through a world
By sorrow darken'd and by care disturbed,
Apt likeness bears to hers through gather'd clouds
Moving untouch'd in silver purity.
1871.
The Right of Translation is reserved.
To
In the Garden.
There are certain days in the lives of each one of us, whichcome in their due course without special warning, to which welook forward with no anticipations of peculiar joy or sorrow,from which beforehand we neither demand nor expect more thanthe ordinary portion of good and evil, and which yet throughsome occurrence—unconsidered perhaps at the moment, butgaining in significance with years and connecting events—aredestined to live apart in our memories to the end of ourexistence. Such a day in Horace Graham's life was a certainhot Sunday in August, that he spent at the big hotel atChaudfontaine.
Every traveller along the great high road leading fromBrussels to Cologne knows Chaudfontaine, the little villagedistant about six miles from Liége, with its church, its bighotel, and its scattered cottages, partly forges, partlyrestaurants, which shine white against a dark green backgroundof wooded hills, and gleam reflected in the clear tranquilstream by which they stand. On every side the hills seem tofold over and enclose the quiet green valley; the stream windsand turns, the long po