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 had for some time been failing, went to his funeral and sat for the last time in the damp, melancholy church; indeed, it was the last time that she ever left the house. She was dying of consumption.

We can imagine no sadder record than that of Emily Brontë's illness and death. Every hope of her life had been blighted. The school, which was to keep herself and her sisters together in the home she loved, had failed; her novel, into which she had put her heart and her ambition, had failed too; her dearly beloved brother, for whom she had dreamed of fortune and fame, had just died disgraced, despised, and miserable. Now she felt herself dying. With a last exercise of will stranger and sadder than his, with a courage and endurance almost incredible, she refused even to own that she was not well, and went about her daily duties, pale, thin, and panting; creeping slowly down the stairs with her hand against the wall in the morning, toiling at household labors throughout the day, and dragging herself painfully to her bed at night.

She refused to see a doctor; she refused to take medicine; she refused to rest; and her sisters, who did not dare to cross her, looked on with breaking hearts as she grew weaker day by day. On the day of her death she rose as usual and sat down before the fire to comb her long, brown hair; but she was too weak, and the comb fell from her hand and dropped into the hot ashes, where it lay for some time giving forth the nauseous odor of burning bone. When the servant came in Emily said to her, pointing to it, "Martha, my comb's down there. I was too weak to stoop and pick it up."

Nevertheless she finished dressing, tottered dizzily down the stairs, and taking up a piece of work attempted to sew. Towards noon she turned to her sisters, saying in a gasping whisper, for she could no longer speak aloud: