d then two of the little girls died. That left three girls and Branwell
the boy. He was petted and made too much of by his father and everybody.
He was the one that always was going to do great things. He made the girls
wait on him and cuffed them if they didn't, and if they did, and all the
time told of the things he was going to do. But he never did them, for he
spent most of his time at the taverns. After a while he died--died of the
tremens.

The three Bronte girls, Emily, Charlotte and Annie, wrote a novel apiece,
and never showed them to their father or to any one. They called 'emselves
Currer, Ellis and Acton Bell, and their novels were the greatest ever
written--they wrote them 'emselves with no man to help. Their father was
awful mad about it, but when the money began to come in he felt better.
Emily died when she was twenty-seven. She was the brightest of them all;
then Annie died, and only Charlotte and the old man were left. Charlotte
married her father's curate, but old Mr. Bronte wouldn't go to the
wedding: he went to the Black Bull instead. Miss Wooler gave the bride
away--some one had to give her away, you know. The bride was thirty-eight.
She died in less them a year, and old Mr. Bronte and Charlotte's husband
lived here alone together.

This was Charlotte's room; this is the desk where she wrote "Jane
Eyre"--leastwise they say it is. This is the chair she sat in, and under
that framed glass are several sheets of her manuscript. The writing is
almost too small to read; and so fine and yet so perfect and neat! She was
a wonderful tidy body, very small and delicate and gentle, yet with a good
deal of her father's energy.

Here are letters she wrote: you can look at them if you choose. This
footstool she made and covered herself. It is filled with
heather-blossoms--just as she left it. Those books were hers, too--many of
them given to her by great authors. See, there is Thackeray's name written
by himself, and a letter from him pasted inside the front cover. He was a
big man they say, but he wrote very small, and Charlotte wrote just like
him, only better, and now there are hundreds of folks write like 'em both.
Then here's a book with Miss Martineau's name, and another from Robert
Browning--do you know who he was?

Yes, the church is always open. Go in and stay as long as you choose; at
the door is a poorbox and if you wish to put something in you can do so--a
sixpence most visitors put in, or a shilli