There is not much to be added. But the following letter of Charlotte Brontë possesses a peculiar interest, as it reveals the story of her engagement. On April 18, 1854, she writes to Mrs. Gaskell from Haworth:

I should have deferred writing to you till I could fix the day of coming to Manchester, but I have a thing or two to communicate which I want to get done with. You remember-or perhaps do not remember-what I told you when you were at Haworth. Towards the end of autumn the matter was again brought prominently forward. There was much reluctance and many difficulties to be overcome. I cannot deny that I had a battle to fight with myself; I am not sure that I have even yet conquered certain inward combatants. Be this as it may, in Jany last papa gave his sanction for a renewal of acquaintance. Things have progressed I don't know how. It is of no use going into detail. After various visits and as the result of perseverance in one quarter and a gradual change of feeling in others, I find myself what people call ' engaged.'

Mr. Nicholls returns to Haworth. The people are very glad, especially the poor and old and very young, to all of whom he was kind, with a kindness that showed no flash at first, but left a very durable impression. He is to become a resident in this house. I believe it is expected that I shall change my name in the course of summer-perhaps in July. He promises to prove his gratitude to papa by offering faithful support and consolation to his age. As he is not a man

of fine words, I believe him. The Rubicon once passed, papa seems cheerful and satisfied; he says he has been far too stern'; he even admits that he was unjust-terribly unjust he certainly was for a time, but now all this is effaced from memory, now that he is kind again and declares himself happy, and talks reasonably and without invective. I could almost cry sometimes that in this important action in my life I cannot better satisfy papa's perhaps natural pride. My destiny will not be brilliant certainly, but Mr. Nicholls is conscientious, affectionate, pure in heart and life. He offers a most constant and tried attachment, I am very grateful to him; I mean to try to make him happy, and papa too.

I will close my paper with some words taken from a letter of Mr. Brontë's on his daughter Charlotte's death. He writes to Mrs. Gaskell on April 6, 1855:

My daughter is indeed dead-the solemn truth presses upon her worthy and affectionate husband and me with great and, it may be, with unusual weight. But others also have or shall have their sorrows, and we feel our own the most. The marriage that took place seemed to hold forth long and bright prospects of happiness. But in the inscrutable providence of God all our hopes have ended in disappointment and our joy in mourning. May we resign to the will of the Most High! After three months of sickness tranquil death closed the scene. But our loss, we trust, is her gain. But why should I trouble you longer with our sorrows? The heart knoweth its own bitterness,' and we ought to bear with fortitude our own grievances and not to bring others into our sufferings.

There is something of Stoicism as well as of Christianity in the bereaved father's calm and stern submission to the Almighty Will.

J. E. C. Welldon.

BECKY.

BECKY belonged to Somebody's Light Horse, a corps comprising a set of typical scallywags, always ready at the very shortest notice to embark on any military enterprise, from the storming of a koppie held by desperadoes to the clearing of a canteen stocked from floor to ceiling with liquid and with solid goods. Blithe, resourceful and unaffected, his boisterous good humour was warranted to exorcise despondency in the darkest hour, and by those inclined to judge by appearances he was often put down as a simple soul. By some mysterious process he had acquired the position of Supply-Officer to the Column, and there was not in all South Africa an official more strenuous or indefatigable in carrying out what were often irksome and unattractive duties, duties which kept him trekking along familiar, glaring, dust-smothered roads, while the Column reposing in some deftly chosen bivouac wondered idly why it took him such an unconscionable time to fetch rations from a railway distant sixty miles. Still, tireless and energetic as he was, Becky had his little peccadilloes like the best of us, peccadilloes which made his merits the more conspicuous by contrast.

He suffered from a predisposition, a predisposition amounting almost to a passion, for accumulating forms of provender which under no conceivable circumstances could prove of any service. The transport placed at his disposal was strictly limited in its carrying capacity, and its employment to the best purpose was therefore manifestly of paramount importance. The mobility of the commando, and consequently its efficiency for carrying out its peripatetic functions, virtually hinged upon the amount of forage which accompanied it when on the move. That being the case, it came to be a fundamental principle governing its commissariat organisation that only just sufficient sustenance was to be carried for man, while the remaining space at the disposal of the SupplyOfficer was to be piled up, to the utmost extent compatible with the power of the teams, with sustenance for beast. Nor was Becky opposed to this doctrine in the abstract. He was in the habit indeed of waxing eloquent on the subject from time to time. But when it came to practice there were lamentable backslidings, for

his soul delighted in amassing hoards of pepper, or of those dried vegetables which in defiance of a resolute refusal on the part of everybody to eat them were served out solemnly from the depots, or of anything of an edible nature upon which he could lay his hands; then having collected these attractive impedimenta he took delight in dragging them about the Karoo with him, apparently to serve as ballast.

The impropriety of such procedure had been strongly impressed upon the delinquent on several occasions, and the Staff had at last persuaded themselves that he had conquered his reprehensible weakness. Judge, then, of their indignation when it came to their ears one evening that there were wagons in his charge which were groaning under articles of diet over and above requirements, of a character that by no stretch of the imagination nor misapplication of the English language could be classed as forage. They raged furiously together against him for some minutes, and ultimately resolved that the time was ripe for the taking of measures disciplinary and drastic. Always the way with these irregulars-orders are about as much use to them as a sick headache. They don't care for rules nor regulations, nor the written and unwritten law, no more than if they were a ladies' club!' the Staff-Officer declared with angry vehemence. There was a tiger glint in the ColumnCommander's eye. Irregular or not,' he snarled, 'I'm about fed up with him, and won't have any more of his nonsense.' A halt had already been ordained for the morrow, so it was decided that Becky was to be inspected first thing on the following morning, formally, searchingly and without any warning having been allowed to reach him of what there was in store.

Becky was not one of those busybodies who will fool away the early hours of a day of rest on rising prematurely to poke aimlessly about in camp. He was still curled up snugly in his blankets when the enemy came down prepared for battle on him in his lines. Being no slave to appearances, however, his toilet caused him no anxieties and did not take him long, so that in a very few minutes he had made himself moderately presentable and was expressing unbounded gratification at the honour of a visit from his chief. Having nothing better to do, Becky, we've just strolled across to see what you've got in your wagons,' was the greeting of the Column-Commander, hiding his fell purpose under the cloak of a spurious bonhomie; ' just get your boys together and turn everything out and sort the different odds and ends of things into stacks.'

The Supply-Officer looked for a moment slightly disconcerted, but he issued the necessary instructions promptly and a scene of hilariously noisy disorder ensued, the Kaffirs chattering like a lot of monkeys and entering into the spirit of the thing with as much zest and vigour as if they had never unloaded a wagon before in the whole course of their lives.

6

While the work was in progress the Supply-Officer dexterously manoeuvred his chief away to a spot at one end of his row of vehicles, where oats and compressed fodder were being bundled out and piled up into goodly heaps. Having accomplished this, he began inveighing against the staff of the supply-depots for never having bran to issue and for so often being able to produce nothing else but oats, being aware that the Column-Commander held strong views upon the point. You'll find there's three days' stuff here for all the horses and mules, Colonel, with just a trifle over,' he said; we carry seven days as you know, and have expended four.' Becky had, however, reckoned without his host in the shape of the Staff-Officer. That official had quietly withdrawn himself during this confabulation and he now came up with the report: There are two wagons at the far end of the lines which you will find are not being unloaded, Sir. One is full of biscuits, as far as I can make out, the other appears to have everything in the world in it, except forage.' 'I told you, Mr. S-,' said the Column-Commander, assuming that official manner which he flattered himself became him well, that your stores were all to be taken out; will you be good enough to have everything unloaded at once!' There was no help for it, and realising that the time for subterfuges was now gone by, the Supply-Officer prepared with an undaunted countenance to face the music.

'What's this?' demanded the Column-Commander, indicating with his foot a bulky stack of cases all of a uniform pattern. 'Oh, that's jam, Colonel,' explained Becky; 'to tell you the truth I shouldn't wonder if you found there was a trifling surplus.' 'What do you make of it?' the Column-Commander enquired of the Staff-Officer who was already hard at work counting the cases and making elaborate entries in his note book. After a few minutes of calculation the result was announced. I make out that there's between thirteen and fourteen days there for the whole column,

Sir."

Becky, who was not without a sense of humour, managed to smother a grin at the cost of getting purple in the face, and began

wildly hunting among some yellow forms on which there appeared to be nothing entered. 'You told me just this minute, Mr. S——, that you ought to have three days' supplies in hand. How do you account for having from ten to eleven days' jam in excess?' demanded the Column-Commander in his sternest tones. Well, Colonel, it's always as well, don't you know, not to cut things down too fine,' was the Supply-Officer's apologia, uttered in his glibbest manner : you see the men want just a little extra every now and then; the Trumpeter, for instance, likes a pot all to himself occasionally,' for the Trumpeter was a privileged person. You will please

to understand, Mr. S-,' said the Column-Commander maintaining an outward calm, but only by a superhuman effort,' that if the troops are to get an extra ration of anything at any time, it will be at my discretion, not at yours.' Becky perceived that matters were becoming critical. He contrived to haul down the smile of a favourite which he had been flying at the main and to hoist a frown of portentous gravity in its place; he assumed an attitude which he confidently believed to be that of attention,' and he gave his further replies to queries addressed to him by his superior officer in monosyllables and a sepulchral tone.

Just make out,' At work of this

'Now for this gigantic pile of biscuits,' said the ColumnCommander, stopping before an immense stack. to the Staff-Officer, what it all amounts to.' what it all amounts to.' nature the Staff-Officer was a kind of walking slide-rule, and in an incredibly short space of time (during which the Column-Commander paraded up and down apart, nursing his wrath, lest Becky should engage him in a friendly conversation) the figures were proclaimed in these terms: 'It's not quite so bad as the jam, Sir. There's almost exactly eleven days here, so we are only carrying eight days more than we ought to be.'

at

Becky was pulverised by a withering glance from his indignant chief, who asked the Staff-Officer' How much does that work out per horse in the column?' 'Mules, horses, Sir?' 'No, hang it all, mules must be mules-for biscuits.' There was a further totting up of figures and then the lightning-calculator announced the answer to the sum: 'It comes to just about ten pounds per horse, Colonel, as near as I can make it. But I say, Sir! we can't possibly stuff all that into them at one go! They'll be catchingwhat's that new-fangled complaint which people are accused of having whenever they feel a bit dicky in their insides-something beginning with a "p"