. . .  “I had a kindly leaning towards him, because he is an amiable and well-disposed man.  Yet I had not, and could not have, that intense attachment which would make me willing to die for him; and if ever I marry, it must be in that light of adoration that I will regard my husband.  Ten to one I shall never have the chance again; but n’importe.  Moreover, I was aware that he knew so little of me he could hardly be conscious to whom he was writing.  Why! it would startle him to see me in my natural home character; he would think I was a wild, romantic enthusiast indeed.  I could not sit all day long making a grave face before my husband.  I would laugh, and satirize, and say whatever came into my head first.  And if he were a clever man, and loved me, the whole world, weighed in the balance against his smallest wish, should be light as air.”

So that—­her first proposal of marriage—­was quietly declined and put on one side.  Matrimony did not enter into the scheme of her life, but good, sound, earnest labour did; the question, however, was as yet undecided in what direction she should employ her forces.  She had been discouraged in literature; her eyes failed her in the minute kind of drawing which she practised when she wanted to express an idea; teaching seemed to her at this time, as it does to most women at all times, the only way of earning an independent livelihood.  But neither she nor her sisters were naturally fond of children.  The hieroglyphics of childhood were an unknown language to them, for they had never been much with those younger than themselves.  I am inclined to think, too, that they had not the happy knack of imparting information, which seems to be a separate gift from the faculty of acquiring it; a kind of sympathetic tact, which instinctively perceives the difficulties that impede comprehension in a child’s mind, and that yet are too vague and unformed for it, with its half-developed powers of expression, to explain by words.  Consequently, teaching very young children was anything but a “delightful task” to the three Bronte sisters.  With older girls, verging on womanhood, they might have done better, especially if these had any desire for improvement.  But the education which the village clergyman’s daughters had received, did not as yet qualify them to undertake the charge of advanced pupils.  They knew but little French, and were not proficients in music; I doubt whether Charlotte could play at all.  But they were all strong again, and, at any rate, Charlotte and Anne must put their shoulders to the wheel.  One daughter was needed at home, to stay with Mr. Bronte and Miss Branwell; to be the young and active member in a household of four, whereof three—­the father, the aunt, and faithful Tabby—­were past middle age.  And Emily, who suffered and drooped more than her sisters when away from Haworth, was the one appointed to remain.  Anne was the first to meet with a situation.