round me, the ladies pressing with their sums and their lessons . . .  If you love me, do, do, do come on Friday:  I shall watch and wait for you, and if you disappoint me I shall weep.  I wish you could know the thrill of delight which I experienced, when, as I stood at the dining- room window, I saw —–­, as he whirled past, toss your little packet over the wall.”

Huddersfield market-day was still the great period for events at Roe Head.  Then girls, running round the corner of the house and peeping between tree-stems, and up a shadowy lane, could catch a glimpse of a father or brother driving to market in his gig; might, perhaps, exchange a wave of the hand; or see, as Charlotte Bronte did from the window, a white packet tossed over the avail by come swift strong motion of an arm, the rest of the traveller’s body unseen.

“Weary with a day’s hard work . . .  I am sitting down to write a few lines to my dear E. Excuse me if I say nothing but nonsense, for my mind is exhausted and dispirited.  It is a stormy evening, and the wind is uttering a continual moaning sound, that makes me feel very melancholy.  At such times—­in such moods as these—­it is my nature to seek repose in some calm tranquil idea, and I have now summoned up your image to give me rest.  There you sit, upright and still in your black dress, and white scarf, and pale marble-like face—­just like reality.  I wish you would speak to me.  If we should be separated—­if it should be our lot to live at a great distance, and never to see each other again—­in old age, how I should conjure up the memory of my youthful days, and what a melancholy pleasure I should feel in dwelling on the recollection of my early friend! . . .  I have some qualities that make me very miserable, some feelings that you can have no participation in—­that few, very few, people in the world can at all understand.  I don’t pride myself on these peculiarities.  I strive to conceal and suppress them as much as I can; but they burst out sometimes, and then those who see the explosion despise me, and I hate myself for days afterwards . . .  I have just received your epistle and what accompanied it.  I can’t tell what should induce you and your sisters to waste your kindness on such a one as me.  I’m obliged to them, and I hope you’ll tell them so.  I’m obliged to you also, more for your note than for your present.  The first gave me pleasure, the last something like pain.”

* * * * *

The nervous disturbance, which is stated to have troubled her while she was at Miss W—–­’s, seems to have begun to distress her about this time; at least, she herself speaks of her irritable condition, which was certainly only a temporary ailment.

“You have been very kind to me of late, and have spared me all those little sallies of ridicule, which, owing to my miserable and wretched touchiness of character, used formerly to make me wince, as if I had been touched with a hot iron; things that nobody else cares for, enter into my mind and rankle there like venom.  I know these feelings are absurd, and therefore I try to hide them, but they only sting the deeper for concealment.”