Nor did the matter end, as I thought it would have done, with the publication of my articles in _Macmillan's_. I received a summons from the famous head of that firm of publishers, Mr. Alexander Macmillan; and, attending him in the deferential manner in which authors in those days waited upon important publishers, was asked with characteristic gruffness if I could add enough to the articles to make a book. "The public," said Mr. Macmillan, in tones which made me feel my own insignificance, "seems to want something more of the stuff; I really don't know why. But if you can do something more, we'll make a book of it." Then he named the honorarium I was to receive in payment both for the magazine articles and the volume. It was a modest sum--only a hundred pounds, and of this I felt that Miss Nussey was entitled to a considerable share. But a hundred pounds was not to be despised. Besides, I loved my subject, and knew that I had still something left to say about it. So I closed with Mr. Macmillan's offer, and a few months later my little book, "Charlotte Brontë: a Monograph," was duly published. It will be seen that it was by accident rather than design that I wrote the book. Miss Nussey moved me to the writing of the magazine articles; Mr. Macmillan urged me to expand them into a volume. Otherwise I should have written nothing on the subject, and it would have been left to somebody else to start that Brontë cult which has since spread so widely. The appearance of the volume marked an important epoch in my life. Yet, in the first instance, "Charlotte Brontë" was very coldly received by the critics. Most of them seemed to think that the book was entirely superfluous. They evidently shared Mr. Macmillan's surprise that anybody should think such a volume was needed. Most of them also agreed that I had no special qualifications for the task I had undertaken, and that the new matter I had brought to light was of little value. One of my critics, the _Athenaeum_, poured contempt upon me for having spoken of "the scent of the heather." The ingenuous writer evidently had seen heather nowhere save on the slab of a fishmonger's shop. But, in spite of the critics, the book sold, and sold rapidly. It went through three editions in this country within a few weeks of its publication. It was republished in America by arrangement with the Macmillans, and had so large a sale there that it was speedily pirated, the pirates not even having the decency to give my name upon the title-page.