I had, I confess, a kindlier feeling towards our youthful companion on the return journey than that which I had entertained towards him before this incident; but ere we reached Leeds he again annoyed me. Whilst we were waiting for our train in Keighley Station, M. disappeared from our side. Presently we became aware that he was going to and fro upon the platform telling everybody who Bret Harte was; so that in a short time we found ourselves surrounded by a staring crowd. Fortunately the train came up, and we were able to escape; but a man known to M. entered the compartment, and the exuberant youth, in spite of the frowns of Shepard and myself, was unable to restrain himself. We heard him, in a stage whisper, announce that Bret Harte was there. Harte, who was boiling over with indignation, thrust his head out of the window to escape the stranger's stare. The latter ejaculated, "Bret Harte! Where?" M. pointed to the window, and instantly the sturdy Yorkshireman sprang from his seat, and seizing Harte by the shoulders, forced him back into his seat, whilst he thrust himself half out of the window, and eagerly searched the platform for the missing celebrity. "I can't see him nowhere," he ejaculated, as the train moved off, and he once more pushed Harte violently aside, as he strode back to his own seat. When at last, by expressive pantomime, M. had conveyed the truth to his friend's mind, it was difficult to decide whether Harte or the hero-worshipper betrayed the greater degree of embarrassment. It was about this time that I had an amusing experience of my own in connection with Haworth and the Brontës. I was staying with my wife and children at a country inn at Burnsall, a delightful spot on the Upper Wharfe above Bolton Abbey. The inn was a small one, and by arrangement with the landlord I had, in addition to a sitting-room, the exclusive use of the coffee-room when my family partook of meals. The truth was that the "Red Lion" had but few visitors, at any rate of the coffee-room class. Coming down to breakfast one morning, the landlord met me with a perturbed countenance. "There's a young gentleman from London in the coffee-room, sir," he said, "and though I've told him the room is engaged, he won't go out, but insists upon having his breakfast there." I assured the landlord that I did not in the least object to his doing so, and accordingly the young man breakfasted at the same table as myself and my family. I found he was an entire stranger to the district, and he volunteered the statement that he had never been in Yorkshire before his present visit. An enthusiast upon Yorkshire scenery, I was anxious to know what he had seen of the beautiful broad shire. "I've been nowhere," he replied, "except to a little place called Haworth."