nd to him. After dinner he was
called on for a speech, and when he sat down they cheered him and
drank his health.

They all examined his shillelagh, and, before parting, promised to do
their best to aid him in discovering the reviewer; but his friend
afterwards told him, at the Museum, that all had failed, and
considered Hugh's undertaking hopeless.

He tried other plans of getting on the reviewer's track. He would step
into a book-shop, and buy a sheet of paper on which to write home, or
some other trifling object. While paying for his small purchase he
would lift "The Quarterly Review," and casually ask the book-seller
who wrote the attack on "Jane Eyre."

He always found the book-sellers communicative, if not well informed.
Many told him that "Jane Eyre" was a well-known mistress of
Thackeray's. None of them seemed able to bear the thought of appearing
ignorant of anything. It was quite well known, others assured him,
that Thackeray had written the review--"in fact, he admitted that he
was the author of the review." Some declared that Mr. George Henry
Lewes was the author, others said it was Harriet Martineau, and some
ventured to say that Bulwer Lytton or Dickens was the critic. These
names were given with confidence, and with details of circumstances
which seemed to create a probability; but his friend, whom he met
daily at the Museum, assured him that they were only wild and absurd
guesses. Thus ended one of the strangest adventures within the whole
range of literary adventure.

Hugh Bronte failed to find the reviewer of his niece's novel, but
explored London thoroughly. He saw the queen, but was better pleased
to see her horses and talk with her grooms.

He saw reviews of troops, and public demonstrations, and cattle shows,
and the Houses of Parliament, and ships of many nations that lay near
his lodging; and he visited the Crystal Palace and the Tower, and
other objects of interest; and when his patience was exhausted and
his money spent, he returned to Haworth on his homeward journey.

[Illustration: CHARLOTTE BRONTE.]

His stay at the vicarage was brief. During his absence, consumption
had been rapidly sapping the life of the youngest girl, yet the gentle
Anne received him with the warmest welcome, and talked of accompanying
him to Ireland, which she spoke of as "home." At parting she threw her
long, slender arms round his neck, and called him her noble uncle.
Charlotte took him for a walk on the moo