The recollections left of the four Bronte sisters at this period of their lives, on the minds of those who associated with them, are not very distinct.  Wild, strong hearts, and powerful minds, were hidden under an enforced propriety and regularity of demeanour and expression, just as their faces had been concealed by their father, under his stiff, unchanging mask.  Maria was delicate, unusually clever and thoughtful for her age, gentle, and untidy.  Of her frequent disgrace from this last fault—­of her sufferings, so patiently borne—­I have already spoken.  The only glimpse we get of Elizabeth, through the few years of her short life, is contained in a letter which I have received from “Miss Temple.”  “The second, Elizabeth, is the only one of the family of whom I have a vivid recollection, from her meeting with a somewhat alarming accident, in consequence of which I had her for some days and nights in my bedroom, not only for the sake of greater quiet, but that I might watch over her myself.  Her head was severely cut, but she bore all the consequent suffering with exemplary patience, and by it won much upon my esteem.  Of the two younger ones (if two there were) I have very slight recollections, save that one, a darling child, under five years of age, was quite the pet nursling of the school.”  This last would be Emily.  Charlotte was considered the most talkative of the sisters—­a “bright, clever, little child.”  Her great friend was a certain “Mellany Hane” (so Mr. Bronte spells the name), whose brother paid for her schooling, and who had no remarkable talent except for music, which her brother’s circumstances forbade her to cultivate.  She was “a hungry, good-natured, ordinary girl;” older than Charlotte, and ever ready to protect her from any petty tyranny or encroachments on the part of the elder girls.  Charlotte always remembered her with affection and gratitude.

I have quoted the word “bright” in the account of Charlotte.  I suspect that this year of 1825 was the last time it could ever be applied to her.  In the spring of it, Maria became so rapidly worse that Mr. Bronte was sent for.  He had not previously been aware of her illness, and the condition in which he found her was a terrible shock to him.  He took her home by the Leeds coach, the girls crowding out into the road to follow her with their eyes over the bridge, past the cottages, and then out of sight for ever.  She died a very few days after her arrival at home.  Perhaps the news of her death falling suddenly into the life of which her patient existence had formed a part, only a little week or so before, made those who remained at Cowan Bridge look with more anxiety on Elizabeth’s symptoms, which also turned out to be consumptive.  She was sent home in charge of a confidential servant of the establishment; and she, too, died in the early summer of that year.  Charlotte was thus suddenly called into the responsibilities of eldest sister in a motherless family.  She remembered how anxiously her dear sister Maria had striven, in her grave earnest way, to be a tender helper and a counsellor to them all; and the duties that now fell upon her seemed almost like a legacy from the gentle little sufferer so lately dead.