and fell to Yorkshire, with its somewhat rude inhabitants. Uninviting as it was in appearance, with barren-looking moors and desolate stretches of rocky undulations, it held within its bosom a jewel of priceless worth. There stood the lonely parsonage of world-wide fame, where had lived the Brontë family the wondrous girls who, from that dreary parsonage, standing among graves, on a wind-beaten hill-top, aroused the admiration of the keenest literary intelligences of the period. Then the order of the day was the route to Keighley in Yorkshire, four miles only from Haworth; and to Keighley by ordinary, perhaps prosaic, methods the pilgrims proceeded.

For to Keighley, they were aware, the Brontës, these strange children, fiercely desirous of knowledge of all and every kind and sort, were accustomed to walk from the village of Haworth. Why? Because there was a draper's shop? Because there was at rare intervals a fair of the period? None of these provincial recreations interested this remarkable family. No! But because there was a circulating library. For that sole reason did these delicate little creatures undertake the rough moorland walk of eight miles

-four miles there and four miles back-'happy, though often tired to death, if only they brought home a novel by Scott or a poem by Southey.' Brought home! To what a home did the tired feet and aching limbs bring these eager searchers after knowledge! To a 'grey parsonage standing among graves, on a wind-beaten hill-top; the neighbouring summits wild with moors. A lonely

place, among half-dead ash trees and stunted thorns. The world cut off on one side by the still ranks of the serried dead; distanced on the other by mile-wide stretches of heath.' Such, we know, was Emily Brontë's home, the vicinity inhabited by Catharine, by Heathcliff, by Earnshaw, and Hindley.

'Oh, what a dreadful place to live in!' cried Hermione; it recalls Kinglake's description of the country around Jerusalem-“a land unspeakably desolate and ghastly "-no wonder the poor things died early and Branwell drank. When one thinks of that murderous school at Cowan Bridge it is hard to restrain one's feelings.'

'Some people love moors and fells,' argued Vanda; 'there's a wild and rugged grandeur about them; and Yorkshiremen, next to the Scots, are among the boldest of the races of Britain. Look at the men and women we watched going to that mill !'

'All very well,' said her unconvinced sister. 'The climate kills off the weak ones; but what of those poor, sensitive little creatures, shivering and ill-fed, in that unhealthy, undrained hole? That fanatical idiot of a clergyman ought to have been sent to gaol, and a teacher or two hanged! He was rich too, and thanked God for the progress of the school, while these dear babes starved by inches.'

'Gently, my dear Hermie !' said Reggie; 'he's not the only historical personage who has killed, or tortured, for the glory of God; but the whole affair is plunged in lamentation, mourning, and

woe. I vote we leave for Scotland by the early train to-morrow.'

'By the very earliest,' Eric agreed. 'Another day here would send us back to Hexham despairing of life, and fit for nothing but suicide.'

'All the same, moors and heaths have their redeeming features,' insisted Vanda. 'Don't you remember how Justice Inglewood calls Die Vernon his "heath-blossom," when, pulling her towards him by the hand, he says: "Another time let the law take its course-and, Die, my beauty! let young fellows show each other the way through the moors"?'

'All very well for Die Vernon, with a blood mare to ride, and a cavalier like Frank Osbaldistone to gallop about with her. But think of three lonely girls, with not even a wicked cousin, like Rashleigh, to fight with, or a delightful, handsome, romantic one like Frank, to fall in and out of love with! But now I think the Brontë experience has gone far enough. Let us agree that the incident is closed. We make an early start to-morrow.'

'And so say all of us,' chorused the rest of the party.

CHAPTER XVIII

THE next departure was made successfully. From Yorkshire to Scotland is no great distance, though the wanderers did not cross the moors to Hawkstone Craig, but proceeded by the more modern route of Keighley and Sheffield.

Behold the pilgrims then, by the kind offices of the steam king, whose miracles Sir Walter regarded with half-proud, half-sad, half-angry, and half-pleased feelings,' landed within walking distance of Abbotsford, and its haunting, magical memories of the Wizard of the North. They gazed with awe, and almost adoration, at the towers and turrets, pinnacles and mouldings of the famous abode of the more famous owner and designer. It seemed to these ardent spirits not so much a house, a family abode, as an enchanted Arabian Nights Palace, compact of the flesh and blood, the brain and spiritual essence of him whose pride and life-work it was. They were able to find suitable lodging accommodation in the vicinity, whence they could sally forth and live, so to speak, in that wondrous company of knights and nobles, mediæval barons, Normans and Saxons,

kings and queens, lovely heroines, and all the dramatis persona of historical romance. They therefore, without delay, conceived and carried out the project of 'viewing fair Melrose aright.'

As it happened, the day had been doubtful, but towards evening the wind dropped, and the night being cloudless, and resplendent with the full radiance of the harvest moon, they had taken all proper precaution to be deposited as nearly as possible at the exact spot where the imagined spectator of 'St. David's ruined pile' would have located himself.

It was a night superbly beautiful—mild, calm, free from all disturbing influences, and permitting our pilgrims the fullest freedom to gaze on a scene at once romantic and inspiring, free from all such interruptions as might be expected in the light of day.

'I think I must ask for a vote in favour of the election of a president, or chairman—if there was any place on which to sit,' said Mr. Banneret.

We cannot afford to spend the whole evening gazing at these ruins, worthy as they are of our admiration.'

'There is no one so fitted for the position, sir, as yourself,' said Falkland Aylmer, and I beg to propose that you be elected by acclamation to that honourable position.'

'I suppose I can second the motion,' said Hermione, though I don't believe they have adult female suffrage in England yet; of course it's coming with other enlightened reforms.'

'I believe Dad knows all the Walter Scott