struck sharply back or dimly shaded out from the deep glass held up to us of a passionate and visionary childhood. We begin at once to consider how the children in Charlotte Brontë's books will grow up; it is too evident that they are not there for their own childish sake—a fatal and infallible note of inferiority from the baby-worshipper's point of view. What thickest-headed quarterly section or subdivision cf a human dullard ever vexed his pitifully scant quarter of an average allowance of brains with the question how Totty would grow up, and whether or not into a modified likeness of her mother? She is Totty for ever and ever, a doubly immortal little child, set in the lap of our love for the kisses and the laughter of all time, to the last generation of possible human readers. But
