a sunset radiance over the shadowed life of Charlotte Brontë. In thinking of her now I find myself rejoicing over the few simple pleasures that came to the self-sacrificing daughter and devoted sister; her visit to her husband's family in Ireland, her liking for these new relations, and, above all, the joy that came to her from being cherished and cared for, she whose chief thought had always been for others.

Even on the night before her wedding poor Charlotte had a serious disappointment. When all was finished, her trunk packed and the wedding dress ready to put on, Mr. Brontë announced his intention of stopping at home while the others went to the church. As there was no one else to give away the bride Miss Wooller, her old teacher, offered her services and so the wedding was not delayed. Can you imagine a father being so disagreeable when he had finally, and after many months of uncertainty, given his consent to the marriage?

Our last visit was to Haworth Church, which is quite changed and is now a large modern building, with nothing left of the old church except the tower. The tablet to the Brontë sisters is on the wall at the west end of the church, and quite near the chancel Charlotte was buried. Upon the tablet is the simple in

scription, "Charlotte, wife of the Rev. Arthur Bell Nicholls, A.B." The verger told us that the brass tablet in memory of Charlotte and Emily was given by a London gentleman when the church was rebuilt. A wreath of flowers, now faded and brown, had been placed over Charlotte's grave to which a card is attached upon which is written, "With the homage of B. C. and V. A. Wilberforce [Basil and Virginia Wilberforce], September 19th, 1899.” This is the Canon Wilberforce whose preaching interested us so much at St. John's, Westminster.

On our way back to Keighley we met the rector of a neighboring parish and had a pleasant talk with him. He regretted our disappointment in not being able to get into the parsonage and gave us his card which, he said, "would admit us upon our next visit to Haworth." Our next visit! Does one ever come again to these little out-of-the-way spots, dear as they are with all their interesting associations? This reverend gentleman, Mr. Lawrence by name, was quite willing to talk about the Brontës, as are all the people hereabouts, they having brought renown and many visitors to this obscure little Yorkshire village. He said, that he had always thought Emily the

most remarkable and entirely individual of the sisters. "Shrinking from strangers, except when forced to go among them to earn her share of the family expenses, she always returned to the wild solitude of the moors with delight. It was quite evident," he said, "from some of the scenes and characters described in 'Wuthering Heights,' that Emily's imagination had been impressed by tales and traditions that had reached her ears of the rude and primitive life of Yorkshire during the early years of the century, when cock-fighting was a favorite pastime in the West Riding and the cruel sport of bull-baiting was still practiced." Mr. Lawrence said that Mrs. Gaskell's story of the Yorkshire squire who was so addicted to cock-fighting that while he was ill with a mortal disease he had mirrors so arranged that he could see the game from his bed was not exaggerated. Another tale that he told us of a certain squire who was in the habit of securing privacy in his house by firing indiscriminately at any one who threatened to disturb his peace, reminded us of Mrs. Gaskell's description of the remarkable manner in which Mr. Brontë was wont to work off his superfluous emotions. The firing of a succession of pistol shots by her husband seems to have been so common an occurrence that deli

cate Mrs. Brontë, lying on her bed upstairs, hearing the quick explosions below and knowing that something was wrong, would say to her nurse, with the sweet submissiveness in which English women seem to excel, "Ought I not to be thankful that he never gave me an angry word?"

When we think of the examples of ungoverned human nature that Emily Brontë encountered in her own family, her eccentric father and her passionate, unhappy brother, and hearing Mr. Lawrence's tale of the rudeness of the Yorkshire life sixty years ago, her Heathcliff and Earnshaws do not seem as impossible as when we read about them by our peaceful firesides at home. We shall never regret this day with the Brontës, and are glad that we have seen their moors, which, lonely as they seem to us, possessed for the sisters a divine beauty.

IV

IN WARWICKSHIRE

WARWICK, July 21st.

SINCE writing to you, dear Margaret, we have changed all of our plans, which you and I once decided was the most congenial occupation for a traveller, and we are indulging in what the English call "bad geography." Instead of going directly from Keighley to York, we suddenly decided to turn our faces southward, while the weather is so cool, returning to the North country in August.

Here we are established in a fairly comfortable place near the castle of the old Kingmaker, after spending a night in a quite impossible inn that was recommended to us as perfectly delightful. At the first place that we essayed, also highly recommended and a temperance hotel at that, the manager was so under the influence of one or more of his tabooed beverages that it was all that he could do to keep his balance while he talked to us. As this is our second experience of the sort, we have