The ecstasy of these poor
animals when I came in was something singular. At former returns
from brief absences they always welcomed me warmly--but not in that
strange, heart-touching way. I am certain they thought that, as I
was returned, my sisters were not far behind. But here my sisters
will come no more. Keeper may visit Emily's little bed-room--as he
still does day by day--and Flossy may look wistfully round for Anne,
they will never see them again--nor shall I--at least the human part
of me. I must not write so sadly, but how can I help thinking and
feeling sadly? In the daytime effort and occupation aid me, but when
evening darkens, something in my heart revolts against the burden of
solitude--the sense of loss and want grows almost too much for me. I
am not good or amiable in such moments, I am rebellious, and it is
only the thought of my dear father in the next room, or of the kind
servants in the kitchen, or some caress from the poor dogs, which
restores me to softer sentiments and more rational views. As to the
night--could I do without bed, I would never seek it. Waking, I
think, sleeping, I dream of them; and I cannot recall them as they
were in health, still they appear to me in sickness and suffering.
Still, my nights were worse after the first shock of Branwell's
death--they were terrible then; and the impressions experienced on
waking were at that time such as we do not put into language.
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