Strolling through the village, after my quiet meal at the Black Bull Inn, which poor Branwell Bronte had so often frequented, I stopped to make some trifling purchases at a stationery store, and casually asked the proprietor--a small, delicate-looking man, with a bright eye and a highly intellectual countenance--if he remembered the Bronte sisters. It was a fortunate question, for he knew them well, and was a personal friend of the authoress of Jane Eyre, to whose handsomely-framed portrait he proudly pointed. He had provided her, as he said, with joyful delight, with the paper on which she wrote the manuscripts of most of her novels; he is referred to in one of Miss Bronte's letters to Mrs. Gaskell, as her "one friend in Haworth," and is the "working-man" mentioned in her memoirs, who wrote a little _critique_ on Jane Eyre, that came to the notice of the authoress and afforded her great pleasure. To talk of the Bronte girls--to express his admiration of them to one who had come from America to visit their home and grave, was to him a great gratification. He told me how he used to meet them on the moors--how they were accustomed to stroll all three together, and talk and gather flowers; then how Emily died, and Anne and Charlotte were left to pace the familiar path arm-in-arm; then how they took Anne away to the sea-side, whence she never returned, while Charlotte would take her lonely moorland walk, rapt in sad contemplation. Sometimes he would meet her on these occasions, and if he passed by without attracting her attention, she would chide him when told of it afterward. She was always so kind, so good-hearted, and with those she knew, so really sociable. Sunday, with my new friend, I attended the church. The storm of the day before had cleared away, and even the place of graves looked bright and cheerful. The churchyard was crowded with country people from miles around, who sat carelessly on the long, flat stones that so thickly covered the ground, waiting for the opening services, while the parish bell kept up a merry peal. Everything seemed simple and happy, and I do not wonder that the Brontes loved their home, with its little garden of lilac bushes, the old church in front, and the sweeping moors stretching far behind. On many a Sunday morning like this they had trodden the very path I then was treading, and had entered the church-door; but how few of these simple villagers knew the treasures of genius showered on these quiet, reserved sisters!