At last [Branwell] grew ill, and would be content to go to bed early, and lie there half-stupefied with opium and drink. One such night, their father and Branwell being in bed, the sisters came up-stairs to sleep. Emily had gone on first into the little passage room where she still slept, when Charlotte, passing Branwell’s partly-opened door, saw a strange bright flare inside. “Oh, Emily!” she cried, “the house is on fire!” Emily came out, her fingers at her lips. She had remembered her father’s great horror of fire; it was the one dread of a brave man; he would have no muslin curtains, no light dresses in his house. She came out silently and saw the flame; then, very white and determined, dashed from her room down stairs into the passage, where every night full pails of water stood. One in each hand she came up-stairs. Anne, Charlotte, the young servant, shrinking against the wall, huddled together in amazed horror--Emily went straight on and entered the blazing room. In a short while the bright light ceased to flare. Fortunately the flame had not reached the woodwork; drunken Branwell, turning in his bed, must have upset the light on to his sheets, for they and the bed were all on fire, and he unconscious in the midst, when Emily went in, even as Jane Eyre found Mr. Rochester. But it was no reasonable, thankful human creature with whom Emily had to deal. After a few long moments, those still standing in the passage saw her stagger out, white, with singed clothes, half-carrying in her arms, half-dragging, her besotted brother. She placed him in her bed, and took away the light; then assuring the hysterical girls that there could be no further danger, bade them go and rest--but where she slept herself that night no one remembers now. A. M. F. ROBINSON: ‘Emily Brontë.’ * * * * * [Sidenote: Emily’s personal resemblance to G. H. Lewes.] I have seen Lewes.... I could not feel otherwise to him than half-sadly, half-tenderly--a queer word that last, but I use it because the aspect of Lewes’s face almost moves me to tears; it is so wonderfully like Emily--her eyes, her features, the very nose, the somewhat prominent mouth, the forehead--even, at moments, the expression. CHARLOTTE BRONTË: _Letter_, 1850, quoted by Mrs. Gaskell. * * * * * [Sidenote: Death of Emily Brontë.]