she lingered over any task that lay before her, and she did not
linger now. She sank rapidly. She made haste to leave us. . . .
Day by day, when I, saw with what a front she met suffering, I
looked on her with an anguish of wonder and love: I have seen
nothing like it; but, indeed, I have never seen her parallel in
anything. Stronger than a man, simpler than a child, her nature
stood alone. The awful point was that, while full of ruth for
others, on herself she had no pity; the spirit was inexorable to
the flesh; from the trembling hands, the unnerved limbs, the
fading eyes, the same service was exacted as they had rendered in
health. To stand by and witness this, and not dare to
remonstrate, was a pain no words can render."

In fact, Emily never went out of doors after the Sunday
succeeding Branwell's death. She made no complaint; she would not
endure questioning; she rejected sympathy and help. Many a time
did Charlotte and Anne drop their sewing, or cease from their
writing, to listen with wrung hearts to the failing step, the
laboured breathing, the frequent pauses, with which their sister
climbed the short staircase; yet they dared not notice what they
observed, with pangs of suffering even deeper than hers. They
dared not notice it in words, far less by the caressing
assistance of a helping arm or hand. They sat, still and silent.

"Nov. 23rd, 1848.

"I told you Emily was ill, in my last letter. She has not rallied
yet. She is VERY ill. I believe, if you were to see her, your
impression would be that there is no hope. A more hollow, wasted,
pallid aspect I have not beheld. The deep tight cough continues;