to Mrs. Gaskell, as her
"one friend in Haworth," and is the "working-man" mentioned in her
memoirs, who wrote a little _critique_ on Jane Eyre, that came to the
notice of the authoress and afforded her great pleasure. To talk of the
Bronte girls--to express his admiration of them to one who had come from
America to visit their home and grave, was to him a great gratification.
He told me how he used to meet them on the moors--how they were accustomed
to stroll all three together, and talk and gather flowers; then how Emily
died, and Anne and Charlotte were left to pace the familiar path
arm-in-arm; then how they took Anne away to the sea-side, whence she never
returned, while Charlotte would take her lonely moorland walk, rapt in sad
contemplation. Sometimes he would meet her on these occasions, and if he
passed by without attracting her attention, she would chide him when told
of it afterward. She was always so kind, so good-hearted, and with those
she knew, so really sociable.

Sunday, with my new friend, I attended the church. The storm of the day
before had cleared away, and even the place of graves looked bright and
cheerful. The churchyard was crowded with country people from miles
around, who sat carelessly on the long, flat stones that so thickly
covered the ground, waiting for the opening services, while the parish
bell kept up a merry peal. Everything seemed simple and happy, and I do
not wonder that the Brontes loved their home, with its little garden of
lilac bushes, the old church in front, and the sweeping moors stretching
far behind. On many a Sunday morning like this they had trodden the very
path I then was treading, and had entered the church-door; but how few of
these simple villagers knew the treasures of genius showered on these
quiet, reserved sisters!

The church inside is old, and quaint, and simple; it can neither be called
elegant, comfortable, spacious nor antique. Old Mr. Bronte was to preach,
and the Rev. Mr. Nicholls read the service. As a compliment to a stranger,
I had been invited by the organist of the church to play the organ--a neat
little instrument of some eight or ten stops; and it was while "giving
out" the familiar tune of Antioch that I noticed, in the reflection of a
little mirror placed above the keyboard, that Mr. Bronte had entered the
church, and was passing up the aisle. He wore the customary black gown,
and the lower part of his face was quite buried in an enormous white