yet majestic, the scene that called to Emily and Charlotte Bronte's
hearts, always, when they were far away.

My heart contracted as I thought of them there; and when we'd walked
back to the village street, and been admitted to the museum, I was on
the point of crying--not for myself, but with the choked grief one might
have on opening a box of old letters from a loved, dead friend. It is
the most intimate, touching little jumble of pathetic souvenirs you ever
saw in a museum; more like treasures guarded by near relations than a
collection for public eyes to see; but that makes the poignant charm of
it. I could have sobbed on a pink print frock with a cape, such as Jane
Eyre might have worn at Thornfield, and on bits of unfinished
needlework, simple lace collars, and water-colour sketches with which
Charlotte tried to brighten the walls of her austere home. There was the
poor dear's wedding shawl, and a little checked silk dress of which I'm
sure she was innocently proud; a few fantastic drawings of Bramwell's; a
letter or two from the sisters; and a picture of the Reverend Carus
Wilson, who was supposed to be Mr. Brocklehurst; just the rather
handsome, well-fed, self-satisfied man you would expect him to be.

I think, dear, that Haworth has done me good, and helped me to be brave.
Again and again I turned, when we'd left, to look back at the church
tower, and try to gather some of the Bronte courage before we slipped
away down many a dark hill toward Bradford, as night gathered us in.

I may need all the courage that I have borrowed and cashed in advance,
because suspense is worse than the pain of any blow.

We leave here early to-morrow morning for Graylees Castle in
Warwickshire--and the tour is at an end.

Your Audrie, who loves and longs for you.

XL

AUDRIE BRENDON TO HER MOTHER

_Graylees Castle_,
_Night of September 12th_

Dearest and Wisest: I remember the first letter I wrote you (on
July Fourth) about the Ellaline business began with expressions
something like this: "Fireworks! Roman Candles!! Rockets!!!"

Well, my last letter about the Ellaline business begins with explosions,
too. A whole gunpowder plot has exploded: Dick's plot.

We got here in the afternoon; an uneventful run, for Sir Lionel was
always the same; cool but kind. I couldn't believe Dick had told him
anything.

Graylees is a place to be proud of, and you would never know there had
been a fire in the castle--but no injur