rer) B(ell) was a thin
disguise for C(harlotte) B(ronte), but it did not deceive the
relatives. Why concealment if there was nothing discreditable to
conceal? A very little reading convinced the uncles and aunts that
concealment was necessary.

The book was not good like Willison's "Balm of Gilead," or like
Bunyan's "Pilgrim's Progress." It was neither history like Goldsmith,
nor biography like Johnson, nor philosophy like Locke, nor theology
like Edwards; but "a parcel of lies, the fruit of living among
foreigners."

The Irish Brontes had never before seen a book like "Jane Eyre"--three
volumes of babble that would take a whole winter to read. They laid
the work down in despair; but after a little, Hugh resolved to show it
to Mr. McKee, the one man in the district whom he could trust.

The reputation of his nieces in England was dearer to Hugh Bronte than
his own.

He tied up the three volumes in a red handkerchief, and called with
them at the manse. Contrary to his usual custom, he asked if he could
see Mr. McKee alone. The interview, of which my information comes from
an eye-witness, took place in a large parlor, which contained a bed,
and a central table on which Mr. McKee's tea was spread.

Hugh Bronte began in a mysterious whisper to unfold his sad tale
to Mr. McKee, as if his niece had been guilty of some serious
indiscretion. Mr. McKee comforted him by suggesting that the book
might not have been written by his niece at all. At this point
Hugh Bronte was prevailed upon to draw up to the table to partake of
the abundant tea that had been prepared for Mr. McKee, while the
latter proceeded to examine the book. Bronte settled down in the
most self-denying manner to dispose of the heap of bread and butter,
and the pot of tea, while McKee went galloping over the pages of the
first volume of "Jane Eyre," oblivious to all but the fascinating
story.

The afternoon wore on; Bronte sat at the table, watching the features
of the reader as they changed from somber to gay, and from flinty
fierceness to melting pathos.

When the servant went in to remove the tea things and light the
candles, both men were sitting silent in the gloaming. McKee, roused
from his state of abstraction, observed Bronte sitting at the _debris_
and empty plates.

"Hughey," he said, breaking the silence, "the book bears the Bronte
stamp on every sentence and idea, and it is the grandest novel that
has been produced in my time;" and then he