Charlotte Brontë at home . wards keeping hope and energy alive inour mourning household. My father says to me almosthourly,— Charlotte, you must bear up ! 1 shall sink ifyou fail me. These words, you can conceive, are astimulus to nature. The sight, too, of my sister Annesvery still, but deep sorrow wakens in me such fear forher that I cannot falter. Somebody must cheer the rest. So 1 will not now ask why Emily was torn from usin the fulness of our attachment; why her existence nowlies like a field of green corn trodden down—like a treein full bearing struck at the root. 1 will only say,sweet
Charlotte Brontë at home . wards keeping hope and energy alive inour mourning household. My father says to me almosthourly,— Charlotte, you must bear up ! 1 shall sink ifyou fail me. These words, you can conceive, are astimulus to nature. The sight, too, of my sister Annesvery still, but deep sorrow wakens in me such fear forher that I cannot falter. Somebody must cheer the rest. So 1 will not now ask why Emily was torn from usin the fulness of our attachment; why her existence nowlies like a field of green corn trodden down—like a treein full bearing struck at the root. 1 will only say,sweet is rest after labour, and calm after tempest, andrepeat again and again that Emily knows that now.* The first keen anguish of mourning forthe lost darling had hardly subsided intothe slow torture of missing her, every hour* Charlotte Bronte and Her Circle, page 175. A Dreary Calm 211 and minute of lives that must evermoremove on without her, when the awfulShade halted for the third time before thedoor he had left CHAPTER XV SLOW DARK MARCH OF THE DAYS—ANNES DECLINE HER DEATH AND BURIAL AT SCARBORO—charlottes RETURN HOME SHIRLEY AGAIN we will let Charlottes letterstake up the sad story: January lo, 1849, Atjne had a very tolerable day yesterday, and apretty quiet night, though she did not sleep much. 1have just dressed the blister, and she is risen and comedown-stairs. She looks somewhat pale and has had one dose of the cod-liver oil. 1 am trying to hope, but the day is windy, cloudy,and stormy. My spirits fall, at intervals, very 1 look where you counsel me to look,—beyondearthly tempests and sorrows. In the night I awakeand long for morning. Then my heart is wrung ! January 15. I can scarcely say that Anne is worse, nor can Isay she is better. Her cough is most troublesoine at Annes Decline 213 night, but rarely violent. She is too precious not to becherished with all the fostering strength I have. The days pass in a slow dark march. The
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