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 neckcloth—­the most monstrous article of the kind I had ever beheld.  The reflection in that little mirror I shall never forget.  The old man, walking feebly up the aisle, shading his eyes with his right hand, and supporting himself with a cane, the quiet congregation, and the singular dress and venerable bald head of the old preacher, all formed a character-picture, that is not often seen.  His sermon was extempore, and consisted of a series of running paraphrases and simple and touching explanations upon a few verses selected from the Lamentations of Jeremiah.

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