for a human being to be; and her whole nature revolted from this woman’s society.  A low nervous fever was gaining upon Miss Bronte.  She had never been a good sleeper, but now she could not sleep at all.  Whatever had been disagreeable, or obnoxious, to her during the day, was presented when it was over with exaggerated vividness to her disordered fancy.  There were causes for distress and anxiety in the news from home, particularly as regarded Branwell.  In the dead of the night, lying awake at the end of the long deserted dormitory, in the vast and silent house, every fear respecting those whom she loved, and who were so far off in another country, became a terrible reality, oppressing her and choking up the very life-blood in her heart.  Those nights were times of sick, dreary, wakeful misery; precursors of many such in after years.

In the daytime, driven abroad by loathing of her companion and by the weak restlessness of fever, she tried to walk herself into such a state of bodily fatigue as would induce sleep.  So she went out, and with weary steps would traverse the Boulevards and the streets, sometimes for hours together; faltering and resting occasionally on some of the many benches placed for the repose of happy groups, or for solitary wanderers like herself.  Then up again—­anywhere but to the pensionnat—­out to the cemetery where Martha lay—­out beyond it, to the hills whence there is nothing to be seen but fields as far as the horizon.  The shades of evening made her retrace her footsteps—­sick for want of food, but not hungry; fatigued with long continued exercise—­yet restless still, and doomed to another weary, haunted night of sleeplessness.  She would thread the streets in the neighbourhood of the Rue d’Isabelle, and yet avoid it and its occupant, till as late an hour as she dared be out.  At last, she was compelled to keep her bed for some days, and this compulsory rest did her good.  She was weak, but less depressed in spirits than she had been, when the school re-opened, and her positive practical duties recommenced.

She writes thus:—­

“October 13th, 1843

“Mary is getting on well, as she deserves to do.  I often hear from her.  Her letters and yours are one of my few pleasures.  She urges me very much to leave Brussels and go to her; but, at present, however tempted to take such a step, I should not feel justified in doing so.  To leave a certainty for a complete uncertainty, would be to the last degree imprudent.  Notwithstanding that, Brussels is indeed desolate to me now.  Since the D.s left, I have had no friend.  I had, indeed, some very kind acquaintances in the family of a Dr. —–­, but they, too, are gone now.  They left in the latter part of August, and I am completely alone.  I cannot count the Belgians anything.  It is a curious position to be so utterly solitary in the midst of numbers.  Sometimes the solitude oppresses me to an excess.  One day, lately, I