ion to God, and
redemption through his Son's merits. I never was exactly careless of
these matters, but I have always taken a clouded and repulsive view of
them; and now, if possible, the clouds are gathering darker, and a
more oppressive despondency weighs on my spirits. You have cheered
me, my darling; for one moment, for an atom of time, I thought I might
call you my own sister in the spirit; but the excitement is past, and
I am now as wretched and hopeless as ever. This very night I will
pray as you wish me. May the Almighty hear me compassionately! and I
humbly hope he will, for you will strengthen my polluted petitions
with your own pure requests. All is bustle and confusion round me,
the ladies pressing with their sums and their lessons . . . If you
love me, _do, do, do_ come on Friday: I shall watch and wait for you,
and if you disappoint me I shall weep. I wish you could know the
thrill of delight which I experienced, when, as I stood at the dining-
room window, I saw ---, as he whirled past, toss your little packet
over the wall."

Huddersfield market-day was still the great period for events at Roe
Head. Then girls, running round the corner of the house and peeping
between tree-stems, and up a shadowy lane, could catch a glimpse of a
father or brother driving to market in his gig; might, perhaps, exchange
a wave of the hand; or see, as Charlotte Bronte did from the window, a
white packet tossed over the avail by come swift strong motion of an arm,
the rest of the traveller's body unseen.

"Weary with a day's hard work . . . I am sitting down to write a few
lines to my dear E. Excuse me if I say nothing but nonsense, for my mind
is exhausted and dispirited. It is a stormy evening, and the wind is
uttering a continual moaning sound, that makes me feel very melancholy.
At such times--in such moods as these--it is my nature to seek repose in
some calm tranquil idea, and I have now summoned up your image to give me
rest. There you sit, upright and still in your black dress, and white
scarf, and pale marble-like face--just like reality. I wish you would
speak to me. If we should be separated--if it should be our lot to live
at a great distance, and never to see each other again--in old age, how I
should conjure up the memory of my youthful days, and what a melancholy
pleasure I should feel in dwelling on the recollection of my early
friend! . . . I have s