“June, 1841.

“You can hardly fancy it possible, I dare say, that I cannot find a quarter of an hour to scribble a note in; but so it is; and when a note is written, it has to be carried a mile to the post, and that consumes nearly an hour, which is a large portion of the day.  Mr. and Mrs. —–­ have been gone a week.  I heard from them this morning.  No time is fixed for their return, but I hope it will not be delayed long, or I shall miss the chance of seeing Anne this vacation.  She came home, I understand, last Wednesday, and is only to be allowed three weeks’ vacation, because the family she is with are going to Scarborough. I should like to see her, to judge for myself of the state of her health.  I dare not trust any other person’s report, no one seems minute enough in their observations.  I should very much have liked you to have seen her.  I have got on very well with the servants and children so far; yet it is dreary, solitary work.  You can tell as well as me the lonely feeling of being without a companion.”

Soon after this was written, Mr. and Mrs. —–­ returned, in time to allow Charlotte to go and look after Anne’s health, which, as she found to her intense anxiety, was far from strong.  What could she do to nurse and cherish up this little sister, the youngest of them all?  Apprehension about her brought up once more the idea of keeping a school.  If, by this means, they three could live together, and maintain themselves, all might go well.  They would have some time of their own, in which to try again and yet again at that literary career, which, in spite of all baffling difficulties, was never quite set aside as an ultimate object; but far the strongest motive with Charlotte was the conviction that Anne’s health was so delicate that it required a degree of tending which none but her sister could give.  Thus she wrote during those midsummer holidays.

   “Haworth, July 18th, 1841.

“We waited long and anxiously for you, on the Thursday that you promised to come.  I quite wearied my eyes with watching from the window, eye-glass in hand, and sometimes spectacles on nose.  However, you are not to blame . . . and as to disappointment, why, all must suffer disappointment at some period or other of their lives.  But a hundred things I had to say to you will now be forgotten, and never said.  There is a project hatching in this house, which both Emily and I anxiously wished to discuss with you.  The project is yet in its infancy, hardly peeping from its shell; and whether it will ever come out a fine full-fledged chicken, or will turn addle and die before it cheeps, is one of those considerations that are but dimly revealed by the oracles of futurity.  Now, don’t be nonplussed by all this metaphorical mystery.  I talk of a plain and everyday occurrence, though, in Delphic style, I wrap up the information in figures of speech concerning eggs, chickens etceatera,