was that of keeping a
school. They thought that, by a little contrivance, and a very little
additional building, a small number of pupils, four or six, might be
accommodated in the parsonage. As teaching seemed the only profession
open to them, and as it appeared that Emily at least could not live away
from home, while the others also suffered much from the same cause, this
plan of school-keeping presented itself as most desirable. But it
involved some outlay; and to this their aunt was averse. Yet there was
no one to whom they could apply for a loan of the requisite means, except
Miss Branwell, who had made a small store out of her savings, which she
intended for her nephew and nieces eventually, but which she did not like
to risk. Still, this plan of school-keeping remained uppermost; and in
the evenings of this winter of 1839-40, the alterations that would be
necessary in the house, and the best way of convincing their aunt of the
wisdom of their project, formed the principal subject of their
conversation.

This anxiety weighed upon their minds rather heavily, during the months
of dark and dreary weather. Nor were external events, among the circle
of their friends, of a cheerful character. In January, 1840, Charlotte
heard of the death of a young girl who had been a pupil of hers, and a
schoolfellow of Anne's, at the time when the sisters were together at Roe
Head; and had attached herself very strongly to the latter, who, in
return, bestowed upon her much quiet affection. It was a sad day when
the intelligence of this young creature's death arrived. Charlotte wrote
thus on January 12th, 1840:--

"Your letter, which I received this morning, was one of painful
interest. Anne C., it seems, is _dead_; when I saw her last, she was
a young, beautiful, and happy girl; and now 'life's fitful fever' is
over with her, and she 'sleeps well.' I shall never see her again. It
is a sorrowful thought; for she was a warm-hearted, affectionate
being, and I cared for her. Wherever I seek for her now in this
world, she cannot be found, no more than a flower or a leaf which
withered twenty years ago. A bereavement of this kind gives one a
glimpse of the feeling those must have who have seen all drop round
them, friend after friend, and are left to end their pilgrimage alone.
But tears are fruitless, and I try not to repine."

During this winter, Charlotte employed her leisure hours in wri